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Canadian  Instituta  for  Historical  Microraproductiona  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  historiquaa 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  technique  et  bibliographiques 


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D 


Adcfitional  comments  / 
CommentaJres  supplementaires: 


Thi)  ittin  it 
Cttfocunwi 

lOX 

14X                       tax 

22X 

2«X 

XX 

J 

t2X 

\6X 

XX 

24  X 

28  X 

32  X 

Th«  copy  filmtd  h«r*  h«i  baan  raproduead  thankt 
to  iha  ganarotily  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'axampliira  filmi  fut  raproduii  grica  t  la 
g*n*roiitt  da: 

Blbllotheque  natlonale  du  Canada 


Tha  imaga*  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  batt  quality 
pouibia  eonaidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibillty 
o(  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  canuaet  apacificationa. 


Laa  imagas  tuivantat  ont  AtA  raproduitat  avac  la 
piua  grand  aoin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nanat*  da  raaamplaira  tilmt,  at  an 
confcrmit*  avac  laa  condition*  du  contrat  da 
fllmaga. 


Original  eopiaa  in  printad  papar  covara  ara  filmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
aion.  or  tha  back  covar  whan  appropriaia.  All 
othar  original  eopiaa  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tha 
firat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
aion,  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impraaaion. 


Laa  anamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  aat  imprimaa  aont  film**  an  eemmancant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  larminani  toit  par  la 
darnlAra  paga  qui  compona  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'illuatration,  aoit  par  la  lacond 
plat,  aalon  la  caa,  Toua  laa  autraa  axamplairaa 
originaux  aont  filmta  an  commandant  par  la 
pramiAra  paga  qui  compona  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  eu  d'illuatration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  talia 
amprainta. 


Tha  laat  racordad  frama  on  aach  mieroficha 
ahall  conuin  tha  lymbol  ^»  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  aymbol  ▼  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appliaa. 

Mapa,  platai,  charta,  ate,  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratioa.  Thoaa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  includad  in  ona  axpoaura  ara  filmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar,  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bonom,  a*  many  framaa  aa 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrama  illuatrata  tha 
mathod: 


Un  daa  aymbolaa  auivanta  apparaitra  iur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  mieroficha.  talon  la 
caa:  la  aymbolo  —^  aignifia  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
aymbola  V  aignifia  "FIN". 

Laa  eartaa,  planchaa,  tableaux,  ate.,  pauvant  atra 
filmta  i  daa  taux  da  rAduetion  diffArants. 
Loraqua  la  documant  aat  trop  grand  pour  itra 
raproduit  an  un  aaul  elicht.  il  aat  filma  A  partir 
da  I'angla  aupAriaur  gaucha,  da  gaucha  i  droita. 
at  da  haut  an  baa,  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagaa  nteaaaaira.  Laa  diagrammaa  auivanta 
illuatrant  la  m*thoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MIOOCOTY   >IS01UTK>N   TIST  CHMT 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2| 


2a 

1^ 

3.2 

3.6 

1^ 

1.0 

11^ 

1.8 


m  ill  u   i  ,. 


1=  i^  m 


J  APPLIED  ItvMGE     li 

^S\i  '^^-^   E03t    Mam    Street 

B^S  Rochejttf.   N«*   Vorh        14609       USA 

r^Sl  ("6)  *82  -  0300  -  Phone 

^=  (T'6)  2B8  -  5989  -  Fo. 


THE  KIBIWO  CITY.  Ill 

THE  CAPTIVES 
HUGH   WALPOLE 


HOOKS  By  HUGH  WALPOLE 
yomr.a 

THE  WOODEN   HORSE 

THE  <ioi.S  AND  MR.  PtUUH 

THE  UW.KS  MIRROR 

THE  DARK  KORfaT 

THE  SKCRKT  CITI 

THE  CAPTIVES 

SOUAXCEa 

MARADI'^K  AT  FORTY 

THE  PR  XUDE  TO  ADVENTDBE 

PORTITl'DL  ""URi: 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

anoRT  BTORiBa 

THE  GOLDEN  SCARECROW 
JEREMT 

BEhLEa-l.ETTBRa 

JOSEPH  CONRAD:  A  CRITICAL  STUDF 


THE  CAPTIVES 

A  NOVEL  IN  FOUR  PARTS 


Bt 


HUGH   WALPOLE 

AOTHOR  or  "JiBllIT,"  "TBI  ilc« 
"TM  ORUM  MIRIIOB, "  «•,. 


•  CITT,' 


NEW  YORK :   GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
TO.  ONTO:    McCLE^LAND    AND    STEWART 


'^^'V^.^v<- 


C3:~ 


COPTRIOHT,    IMO 
m  bXOBOI  H.    DoaAll  COHPAHT 


MISTED  IV   THE    UNITED  ST4TM  OF   , 


ARNOLD  BENNETT 

WITH  DEEP  AFFECTION 


I  confess  that  I  do  not  see  why  the  very  existence 
of  .n  invisible  world  may  not  in  part  depend  „„  the 
personal  response  which  any  of  us  may  make  to  lie 
^  ITT  ZT^-  .^"'^  H^««'^'  i"  ^I^ort.  may  draw 
fi  el  tf  X'm'v"'  ---«  »f  very  being  l/omZ 
naelity.  for  my  own  part  I  do  not  know  what  the 
sweat  and  blood  and  tragedy  of  this  life  mean  ifthey 

fight,  in  which  something  is  eternally  gained  for  tlte 
universe  by  success,  it  is  no  better  than  a  game  of  nri 

thmg  really  wild  m  the  universe  which  we.  with  all 
Z  'tt 'o7  ',S?  ^'"^j!,-"-'  «»  -eded  t;  '  dLm 
.Siei.^*a:df«r^°.'!'r  "'  "^  '"'"'^  ^""^ 

William  James. 


ClU  PTBR 

1 

II 

III 

IV 


CONTENTS 

PART  I:  BEGINNING  OP  THE  JOUHNEr 

Death  or  THKH.v.CHAaLE8C«DmL. 

Aunt  Anne    .      .      ,  '      * 

The  London  House    .  ^ 

The  Chapel  .  *' 

60 


13 


PART  II:  THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE 
I    The  Warlocks     . 

II     ExrEOTATION    . 

III  Maooie  and  Martijt 

IV  Mr.  Crashaw 
V    The  Choice    . 

VI    The  Prophet  w  His  Own  Home 
vll    The  Outside  World 
Vin   Paradise 
IX    The  Inside  Saints 
y    The  Prophet 
XI    The  Chariot  OP  Fire 

PART  ni:  THE  WITCH 
I    The  Three  Visits 

II    Pt'UNOE  Into  THE  Other  Half 
m    Skeaton-on-Sea    .      . 
IV    Gbacb     .  


.      79 
100 
120 
136 
154 
171 
185 
206 
228 
249 
259 


273 

288 
308 


•     321 


"  CONTENTS 

caiPTBi 

V    The  BiTTLE  or  Skeaton:  First  Tbab  .      .      .      .  «J2 
VI    The  Battle  or  Skeaton:  Secomd  Yeu      .      .      .350 

VII    Death  op  Aunt  Anke gjg 

VIII    Death  or  Ukcle  Maihew  ......*  333 

IX    Soul  of  Paul g^^ 

X    The  Kevival        ....  .„, 
407 

PAKT  IV:  THE  JOURNEY  HOME  AGAIN 

I    The  Dabk  Boom ^^ 

II     HOBOOBLINS .„_ 

Ill    The  Triumfh  or  Life ]  ^53 


PART  I 
BEGINNING  OF  THE  JOURNEY 


CHAPTER  I 


"lATH  or  THE  »KV.  CHAHLES  C-RMNal 


f".  toward,  the  second  ^X  of  hr""?!  '''f  '"'  l^"' 
bent  do,vn  to  find  a  clean  collar  itu  •  ^.  "'a'l'h^nd-stand ;  he 
whole  life,  that  death  0^^^  him  iJJ       u    ""^  '  '^'»'  "^  ""ia 

At  one  moment  hia  mi^  ll  •"  '*''"«  •■«  •»"«  find  one. 
He  wa.  atricken  wUh  T^ld  au^f^  "T  '"'  \°""!  "'  'he  ne« 
instant  he  would  peraurde  hTJ^r  '  '*""  """  «"="  «'  that 
before  hia  clouding  ^/^a  black  nh  I^t  ""T".'"*-  "«  '«" 
u.  the  middle  of  hia  back  flun^wi;  .if'T  ''*?^  '""''"«  h'™ 
>t;  a  gaaping  cry  of  protearfnd  Til  "*'"""'''  ^"'^"^  '"to 

permitted  him  be  would  have  atre^ch.^'"'  T":  ^'"'  "^  heen 
"habby  black  bo,  that,  rue  tla  1  m^^!?  "'"  '  ^?"^  ^"""^  the 
ipace  beneath  hia  bed.  -Hme  w»i  not  .1^  "^T*'""'  ""'"'P'^d  «he 
with  him  into  the  darkn^rnXr  1      """  *"";■    "*  ""'ht  take 

He  had  been  toM  on  manTl„  ^'"''^y  "<"•  e'-^an  clothing, 
must  not  excite  nor  rtrdn  it  n'°"M  '^T  ^"  *"""*•  «h«t  he 
allowed  many  other  thin^LcauaeMat""^  1^"'  *"  ^^  "«  he 
one  ambition,  and  one  a^one  He  hadrf^"""""  ^"l^'^  "P"" 
fatal  occasion,  haste  to  find  hia  ™ii„l°'°'''''  T""  "•'»  '«»'  and 
its  Evensong  clatter  and  he  did  ™"".hf  ««»e  the  bell  had  begun 
bell  continued  to  r  ng  "nd  hety  h°a  ttj"'-!"^'  *°.'^  '»'"•  T^" 
The"";,  K^^  "T  »  >"^  a^J-'diSTn'  """""'"*  '^"^^  "P"" 

pown^*t''i;itch»''EILTh:rki1  "':\?"  "'"''-■"^  >'f- 

^er  labours  to  drink  a  cup  of  tTa     Z  "T^.'"^  "  """"^''*  ^"-^ 
full  bosom  pressed  by  the  bo«d!  h<-,  V^  *'"  ^™'  '^hle,  her 

she  blew,  with  little  Win  J  „„i. ""."?' ''''"''™'' "^  her  hand ; 
thoughts  were  with  a  new  hat  and  1  ^".  '"'  *"  <"">'  '*•  «* 
would  trim  it;  she  look-out  whh  C,"  'I-  ""^  ""•  "'''"h  she 
falling  winter's  dusk  InnJ  fhi  ^'^'"' *-' '=''°«^"' «' the 
pans;  her  bony  frame  seemed  to  rattl'^""""'**  '^"^  the 
red  hands;  she  was  happTSoaule  shI  1^..'''"  '^"'''''«'  "''♦'"  her 
be  a  beef-steak  pudding  frr5rner  Slf  ^"^  "1''  '^'™  '''"''' 
worked.  *         ''"'"^'^-     She  sang  to  herself  as  abe 

13 


14 


THE  CAPTIVES 


of^ht  R  „    n^    ,  ''"•"'8"«"'  M"etfi«  Cardinal,  the  onl»  child 
church  bell;  she  heard  al»o,  suddenly,  with  a  unmri..  .1,..         i 
her  heart  beat  for  a  mon.en't  with  fuHo:"  leap     «^    ppit 'on"!" 
w.ndow.p.„e    Then  directly  after  that  .he  fancied  that   here "amo 
fr..m  her  father',  room  above  the  thud  of  .„,„e  .uddcn  L"  ■' 

thought  that  -he  had  been  n.i.taken,  but  the  tapping  at  the  window 
began  aBoin.  now  insistent;  the  church  b.11  auddeiilv  ..n„.li  j 
n  the  .Uence  that  followed  'one  could  hlr  IL  S^e^'^^,;^^ 
bough  driven  by  the  wa-wind  against  the  wall 

fell  -.""'■,'{1'"^''*'*  "?'.*'"*''  "d  «hero  the  curve  of  the  hill 
fell  away  the  sky  was  faintly  yellow;  some  cold  stars  like  point" 
of  ,ce  pierced  the  higher  blue;  carelessly,  as  though  with  st^°dred 
indifference,  flakes  of  snow  fell,  turning  grev  aeaiiiat  ih„  I»!l^  r. 
windows,  then  vanishing  utterly.  Maggir^?*;"."tt  wi"C' 
saw  a  dark  shapeless  figure  beyond  the  glass.  For  an  instant  Z 
Z  'T'^^^^'  the  terror  of  her  surprised  loneliness,  then  Z 
remembered  her  father  and  the  warm  kitchen,  then  reilised  ,h.t 
this  figure  in  the  dark  must  be  her  Uncle  llathcw 

She  went  out  into  the  hall,  pushed  back  the  stiff,  clumsv  handle 
lau^h^ngr'  '      '"""^''  ™  '"  "•"  ""'"^  P"*^-    Sho  caLl  out! 

"Come  in  I    You  frightened  me  out  of  my  life" 

t!o„  th.rhT.!"""'''  ''"';''•'  ^!"  ''"^  "''"«'"'  ''i-dness  and  irrita- 
tion that  he  always  ro  ised  in  her.  He  stood  in  the  light  of  the 
hall  lamp,  a  fat  man  a  soft  hat  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  head,  a 
bag  in  one  hand.  His  lace  was  weak  and  good-tempered,  his  e™s 
had  once  been  fine  but  now  they  were  dim  and  blurred;  there  were 
dimples  m  his  fat  cheeks;  he  wore  on  his  upper  lip  a  ragged  and 
untidy  moustache  and  he  had  two  indetermTate  chins  H?s  e" 
pression  was  mild,  kindly,  now  a  little  ashamed,  now  greatly  in- 
dignant.    It  was  a  pity,  as  he  often  said,  that  he  had  not  more 

rfa-i^^etu^r""^- '"'''''' ''" "' '"'-  *>"" "« --« 

.hi'X-lfdded."-     "^"-■"•^"*-     Father  U  in  church.  I 

Uncle  Mathcw  stepped  with  careful  deliberation  into  the  hall 

pu    his  bag  on  a  chflir,  and  began  a  long,  rambling  explanation.     ' 

1  Jfl  1  "•  ^'^^u-  *"'  ^  ""'"'•'  '"""'  ^"t  y"  »  P»"t  card  if 
1  had  had  an  Idea,  but,  upon  my  soul,  there  I  was  suddenly  in 
Drymouth  on  important  business.  I  thought  to  myself  on  waking 
this  morniug-I  took  a  room  at  the  'Three  Tuna '-'Why   there 


DEATH  OP  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL         16 

m  Chuih,  a.ul  Mawip  «h,.m  I  huvei.'t  nova  for  on  «e '  IM 
have  mm  you  u  tpl„g„m  but  th«  truth  i,,  my  d«r  that?didn' 
w.nt  to  .p.,«l  „  ,H.,u.y  more,  than  I  mu.  .  ThinVi  hiven't  l*., 
«o.ng  ,o  well  «i, I,  .„e  „f  ,.,«.  if.  ,  ,  „„  «"  f^"'  ^'» 
father',  .dvico.     I've  l.ad  the  «or.t  of  luck  and  I  could  tel  you 

,i„l.hh  ^  f"'  \  "'""      ■  '"«''>■  '"  «<""'  »'  "•!»  thing  wTll  Z 

«.  h:rrrou:irimtort'l  ™'^  •"""""-'  •« "-  '•«*'■«■ 

.tA'ln*"*"""  'l"*  '"'■  "'•'">■'  «PP*"«1.  "for  one  night  only"  but 
..ymg  for  weeks  and  week,  in  spite  of  the  indignant  p«teit.  of 
h.8  brother  Charles  who  had  never  liked  him  Md  grud«^  th« 
expense  of  h,.  visit..    Maggie  lierself  took  his  ap^arTnt  a.    hj 

Sheha7«^'"„'ff'''*  '",  ''I'  ''^"  "'""  «K»d-temS  phTloJophy 
She  had  an  affection  for  her  uncle;  she  wished  tha^  be  did  noi 
dnnk  so  much,  but  had  he  made  a  success  of  life  she  would  not 

.  !h!irt.'!^/'f,.""S'*  ""?  ""^  dinintf-'oon,  and  placed  him  on 
rJZZ  ^"i",,^".  fi™-     In    «ll   his   movements   he   attempted 

Ton^S,.!"  '^'*""-^  '*^'"'*  ^^  •'"«''  *»"'*  he  was  drunk  b« 
hoped  that  his  niece,  m  spite  of  her  long  experience  of  him  wouW 
not  perceive  .t.  At  the  same  time  he  knew  that  she  did  pe^ivo 
t  and  would  perhaps  scold  him  about  it.    This  made  him^  mtk 

-oTZJ",tT-  "11  ""■ '."  """^  °"'^ "'''™  th^  «"^"t  d  op 

at  "The  HpI  P  " '■'  ";;?■"'"  "*  ^''^'""'  »««"""•  «>"'  "Other 
at     ihe  Hearty  Cow"  at  Clinton  St.  Mary  just  before  hi.  .»,» 

on  hi.,  »ld  lonely  walk  to  St.  Dreot's.     nTho^tha^  he  would 

'The  sat'd^wn "™  ''^- *"'  "T  •''^"'"'»  *"*■  ^"^  he  chat7eJ^ 
wnnn!,  I  r.  .v*"  *""■  '"^  "ntinuing  to  sew  .miled  at  him, 
her  l,h^  "hat  there  was  for  dinner  and  the  kind  of  mood  that 
her  father  would  bo  m  when  he  found  his  dear  brother  here. 

mMd  J,^'  r  !S™'  "°:  ^^''^^i^hed.  plain  indeed,  alth^gh  her 
mild,  Rood-natured  eves  had  in  their  light  a  quality  of  vitality  and 
-  rwouM  r'"  •T.T"""""'^'  her'flgure'wa,  Uii^ckalid  ^lar^ 
nlinJ^^^  b«  probably  stout  one  day.  She  moved  like  a  man. 
Behndthe^  mildness  of  her  eye,  there  was  much  character  i.- 
resolve  in  her  oarringc,  in  the  strong  neck,  the  firm  breasts,  t  ■ 
mouth  resolute  and  determined.    .She  had  now  thi-  Bne  expectat  o 


le 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"om,n  In  he,  d«.r.h„*';, ''Lrt„r'n''"  ^.'  -  ■"•in" 
w>th  the  coanK.  dr«b  «rcv  of  th.Ir  L     fi    "/'  "'•'""'"  "•'»  u«ly 

•oul.  who  wo„l,i  .«,  in  h„,  2^^  ^  And  yet  , hero  would  b«  .om, 
of  her  eye,  ...J  „outh.  the  hiihnobnu.  /  I*"  'j'"''  '^^P-'hy 
which  her  h.ir  w..  bru.hed  b,ok   "n  ,  tJ.e.l  "^J"'"''""'  '«»" 

irnelo  Muthcw  ilthough  he  wia  ,  .ill. 
perceptive  .ouli.  o^      had  b^ Zt\         "  "*?  ""'  »'  '  «'  thew 
«.nce,  to  think  c,      .'.Ilv  .Lut  ?"  T"*"*"*  '>''  •>»  "i'""^ 
niece  very  dearly.    As  it  w« T,    I      T".!  """'''  •"'«  'ovcd  h" 
thought  of  her  It  ,t  ind  ";.tl  f  r*  '  *""  '  "'"•  '"'  "''en  he 
her  "poo,  old  uncle"  had  hid     H„  I  ^T  •"."*"  '»  '"«  'h«n 
fireplace  with  ..ti.faotion     She   "..    ol'fh-'"  ''"  ""*  '"»"  «*■» 
m  .  world  .hat  .wayed  and  -..„""«     ^Jf  '"  V"",  P'™«nt 
to  feel  happy  .0  long  a.  he  waa  ^    Lw^  wa,  drunk  enough 
moment  when  hi.  brother  Char".  wouU^.^l    "'  ^t'"'"'  "» 
to  arrange  in  his  mind  the  wi  .e  and  ,,?,„        '^??"'  '"''  ^'  'twve 
he  would  defend  him«,lf  bu    hirthou.hTr''^'^''"'  "'"'  "l"''^'' 
Vht  .lipped  and  the  floi™  wi^  the  oU  Ak"^  ^""  "  "">  «'«" 

.hen  .uddenly  the  hall  door  opened  w.^^-"'-'""P"- 
ji'epj  in  the  hall,  and  Old  Th^mTclthl     ^b.^"*'"'  "■"«  "*« 
l^^^the  dining-room.    He  had  aTo^t.^rJ^'r  ^^^k eTh^ 

and^rfor  ^d"  IrJ^kt  ^ih'  "-^"';^  ^'"  «""-" 
forgotten."  °  ■"""  ^ol"haw..     I'm  feared  he's 

^^-P'^'^^^^^^  'Oe  memory  of 

head  raised,  and  the  two  men  Aeir  e~?\i®'l,''l'""^  "'"'■  her 
"niffing  as  though  they  we  ,  H„„  1  •  fy","e«™d  but  their  noses 
tain  sounds,  clock.  fcWng  4e  bfu  Jhf  ""''•  "^^  "^^"^  "*"  «'- 
echo  on  the  fro«n  road  tJ;  „  V*''  ?«rap.ng  on  the  wall,  a  cart's 
the  house.  ii.£:ZttrZl^  '""'"'  '"  '"  ««'  ""P^'-'o? 
I II  go  and  see,"  she  said. 

e.a  -ttC'?  Fi^ri'-ttrtr-  '-'<"■"'-  ^'-" '-« 

"ever  in  all  her  life  been  friXn^^v        .?•   ""'"■••     ^he  had 

frightened  now;  neverZess  as  ih^^f  f"*"""."*  »'"'  »'"'  ""»  "ot 

beh,-j,d  her  to  see  whethe;  anrof/fX^:?  ^^  """-■  "•>«  '"o"'"' 

She  called  ag.in  ..F.^,„"  then  wenrtots  door,  pushed  it 


DEATH  OP  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL    17 

u^o";'c"'!.r.:fd  d".  J"" """" ""  ~"'  ""•"  • '-'  -■"  '^ 

After  that  CTcnta  followed  iwiftly.  Maggie  hen  ;f  had  no  ti™ 
nor  opportunity  for  any  per.onol  emotion  .avo"  dumb  kh»V^ 
;°.«"a:tr;.'''Therordt'  "T  .""'  ">"  -  »"  "'hroth".' 
and  Lncio  Mothew,  .till  liko  dog,  .nifflng,  had  peered  with Tju^^r 
eye.  through  her  fother'.  door.     Then  there  ha^b^n.h„ 

had  been  eook  ery.ng  in  the  kitehen  (her  red  rose,    nLded  fo" 

The- h,°5"h    "Tt''",  T/T'''^  •"'•  ""o  ""id  »niffing  in  .hThall 
.-ncTn  V     '"^■°i^"'^'«  «»'•«'"'.  "'Addled  and  eonfu«.d,  but  cl^ng^ 

o  .!nH    f  ""^  "'''%"""    ."•"  *"•*  •'''"«  yo"  "n  do.  my  dear  ?; 
to  tend  for  your  Aunt  Anne."     There  had  boon   ihl  .  i 

they  could  help  her  in  any  way  and  even  the  lll.ge  butcher"  ho 

ThllL^  ?  '..""f  "''"'''  ""'  ^  ^•"'^  f<"-  «  time  or  two 
Then  suddenly  aa  the  houm,  had  filled  so  suddenly  it  cmn.iTd' 
Magpe  found  that  .he  was  desperately  tired.  She  Vent  to^ 
ft  w.  T  '"''""t'y.  On  waking  next  morning  she  wa.  aware  th^ 
IrZ  ir.h  ''«'!"*'^"l '''''•"'»  day  and  that^here  was  somethTng 
^hT^/?.,  ou-  ^^"^  ''""'«  •"  ^'  then  very  slowlv  a  sS 
SL  f^  it'-  ?''\?'"'  '■''"  ""  «'"'  »""  'ide,  persistent^  a'  sb^ 
fte  and  a  dlrtv'bea^H  .'hT'  ""°.*^'  «'"'>'*'-»  with  a  e'rumo^ 
nf  M™     n     .u^    l"*  *'"'*  '^^"'■d  to  bo  more  dead  than  the  "rMt 

l^m  d^vs    ;r''"  "'''^  '•'^  '""  •"■■"  «''  »•■«  had  found  hTmte 
the  first  days  of  her  consciousness  of  the  world 

W.!C'     jT*^  ^"^  "'''  """fbered,  to  the  ceiling,  his  beard  It 
mm  t,ut  .t  returned  again  and  again,  hanging  about  her  over  her 


18 


THE  CAPTIVES 


■houlder  like  an  iU-omened  meBsenger.  And  all  the  life  between 
r,^f  '"a^  '".W  wiped  away  as  a  sponge  wipes  feTr^^S 
a  slate.  After  the  death  of  her  mother  she  had  made^e  best 
hL„  .,  ",«""»»»"<=«'•.  There  had  been  many  days  when  life  had 
been  unpleasant  and  in  the  last  year,  as  his  miserliness  had  grown 

XL  X\^".  '"■'•'"^'  "'  ""^  ^'"'"«'  e=ctravagance  had  bj^n 
almost  that  of  an  insane  man,  but  Maggie  knew  very  little  of 
the  affairs  of  other  men  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  every  one  had 
some  disadvantage  with  which  to  grapple.     She  did  not  pretend 

tZI-Wl'^^".'  '}'^  "°'  ™'y  '""•''y  l^»»»«  the  villagers 
hated  him,  but  she  had  always  made  the  best  of  everything  because 

tlish'thTnTto  do.""  '"*■""'*"'  '"*"''  *°  *«"  """  *"*  *^'"  --  " 
It  was  indeed  marvellous  how  isolated  her  life  had  been;  she 
knew  simply  nothing  about  the  world  at  all. 

She  could  not  pretend  that  she  was  sorry  that  her  father  had 
died;  and  yet  she  missed  him  because  she  knew  very  well  that 
she  was  now  no  one's  business,  that  she  was  utterly  and  absolutely 
alone  m  the  universe.  It  might  be  said  that  she  could  not  be 
utt>,rly  alone  when  she  had  her  Uncle  Mathew.  but,  although  she 
was  Ignorant  of  life,  she  knew  her  Uncle  Mathew.  .   .   .  Keve"! 

isolation  Upon  the  day  after  her  father's  death  he  was  at  his 
very  best,  his  kindest,  and  most  gentle.  He  was  rather  pathetic, 
having  drunk  nothing  out  of  respect  to  the  occasion;  he  felt 
somewhere  deep  down  in  him.  a  persistent  exaltation  that  his 
.iw'tv  /  r  ""!  ^''^'  ''"'  J""  ^"''^  *«*  ■'  ™»  "Ot  decent  to 
protect  and  comfort  his  niece  so  well  as  he  was  able.  Early  in 
the  afternoon  he  suggested  that  they  should  go  for  a  walk.  Every- 
thing necessaij  had  been  done.  An  answer  to  their  telegram  had 
been  received  from  his  sister  Anne  that  she  could  not  leave  London 
until  that  night  but  would  arrive  at  Clinton  St.  Mary  station  at 
half-past  nine  to-morrow  morning.  That  would  be  in  good  time 
¥-1  T  T"  -f  '=^™'"?"y  «>»*  ""s  to  be  conducted  by  the  Rev. 
parish  '         'P"*'°8  "<=«•■  of  Cator  HiU,  the  neighbouring 

The  house  now  was  empty  and  silent.  They  must  escape  from 
,nl*  mTv"  "'^^ent  clean,  and  solemn,  lying  upon  the  bed 
upstairs.    Mathew  took  his  niece  by  the  hand  and  said- 

My  dear,  a  little  fresh  air  is  the  thing  for  both  of  us.    It  will 
cheer  you  up." 

So  they  went  out  for  a  walk  together.     Maggie  knew,  with  a 


DEATH  OP  BEV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL 


19 


deep  and  intimate  experience,  every  lane  and  road  within  twenty 
miles'  radius  of  St.  Dreot's.  There  was  the  high-road  that  went 
through  Cator  Hill  to  Clinton  and  then  to  Polwint;  here  were 
the  paths  across  the  fields  to  Lucent,  the  lanes  that  led  to  the  valley 
of  the  Lisp,  all  the  paths  like  spiders'  webs  through  Rothin  Wood, 
from  whose  curve  you  could  see  Polchester,  grey  and  white,  with 
its  red-brown  roofs  and  the  spires  of  the  Cathedral  thrusting  like 
pointing  fingers  into  the  heaven.  It  was  the  Polchester  View  that 
she  chose  to-day,  but  as  they  started  through  the  deep  lanes  down 
the  St.  Dreot's  hill  she  was  startled  and  disturbed  by  the  strange 
aspect  which  everything  wore  to  her.  She  had  not  as  yet  realised 
the  great  shock  her  father's  death  had  been;  she  was  exhausted, 
spiritually  and  physically,  in  spite  of  the  deep  sleep  of  the  night 
before.  The  form  and  shape  of  the  world  was  a  little  strained 
and  fantastic,  the  colours  uncertain,  now  vivid,  now  vanishing, 
the  familiar  trees,  hedges,  clouds,  screens,  as  it  were,  concealing 
some  scene  that  was  being  played  behind  them.  But  beyond  and 
above  all  other  sensations  she  was  conscious  of  her  liberty.  She 
struggled  against  this;  she  should  be  conscious,  before  everything, 
of  her  father's  loss.  But  she  was  not  It  meant  to  her  at  present 
not  so  much  the  loss  of  a  familiar  figure  as  the  sudden  juggling, 
by  an  outside  future,  of  all  the  regular  incidents  and  scenes  of 
her  daily  life,  as  at  a  pantomime  one  sees  by  a  transformation  of 
the  scenery,  the  tables,  the  chairs,  and  pictures  the  walls  dance 
to  an  unexpected  jig.  She  was  free,  free,  free— alone  but  free. 
What  form  her  life  would  take  she  did  not  know,  what  troubles 
and  sorrows  in  the  future  there  might  be  she  did  not  care— to- 
morrow her  life  would  begin. 

Although  unsentimental  she  was  tender-hearted  and  affectionate, 
but  now,  for  many  years,  her  life  with  her  father  had  been  a  daily 
battle  of  ever-increasing  anger  and  bitterness.  It  may  be  that  once 
he  had  loved  her;  that  had  been  in  those  days  when  she  was  not 
old  enough  to  love  him  .  .  .  since  she  had  known  him  he  had 
loved  only  money.  She  would  have  loved  him  had  he  allowed  her, 
and  because  he  did  not  she  bore  him  no  grudge.  She  had  always 
regarded  her  life,  sterile  and  unprofitable  as  it  was,  with  humour 
until  now  when,  like  a  discarded  dress,  it  had  slipped  behind  her. 
She  did  not  see  it,  even  now,  with  bitterness;  there  was  no  bitter- 
ness for  anything  in  her  character. 

As  they  walked  Uncle  Mathew  was  considering  her  for  the  first 
time.  On  the  other  occasions  when  he  had  stayed  in  his  brother's 
house  he  had  been  greatly  occupied  with  his  own  plans— requests 
for  money  (invariably  refused)  schemes  for  making  money,  plots 


llij 

si 
^1 


20 


THE  CAPTIVES 


agreeable  amount.    Did  the  S   laTue  Zt  r'""'''!?^  \™'' 

experience,   and   of  whir-h    nf  u^,  '  ""^  considerable 

out.  *  ^'""^   °^   something   before   starting 

aske^''  what  will  you  do  now,  my  dear,  do  you  think 3"  he 

fields.'" A'lifpowder':?i:rr'  ''■•-^—  the  hard-rutted 

and  hedges  were  black  and  hard  againsuhe  whit,  h^'    ^.k"  *'™' 
t  ghtly  stretched  Hk„  .!,«  „o!,       ="'""  ">«  ™ite  horizon  that  was 

so.;^^^?'^^.^':^--  -^i;*;  -*'^  startled  at 
daylt'^hilnttg^on -."  ''''''  '^'"^'^  ""-'  -^^  ^un- 

My"l^:;nte?ntty'ir-  ^^  ^'^^  ct^ersTltlHriS 

«^'/:^t-^K:af's^zrn-.t™.your 


DEATH  OF  BEV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL    21 

i'^r  "^i^-  "^  ^'^^  ^'^'^  ™"  ^^*^^  «'  «11.   But  I  shouldn't 
have  called  him  a  religious  man."  ououion  i 

"Thea  all  this  time  father  has  been  lying!'' 

Her  uncle  gazed  at  her  apprehensively.  He  did  not  wish  in 
undermme  her  faith  in  her  father  on  the  very  day  after  Lr death 
but  he  was  so  ignorant  about  her,  her  thoughts  and  belefs  and 
desires,  that  he  did  not  know  what  her  idea  of  her  father  bad 
been.  Hu  idea  of  him  had  always  been  that  he  was  a  dirty 
miserly  scoundrel,  but  th.t  was  not  quite  the  thing  for  a  daughto 

"I  can't  truly  say  th.  I  ever  knew  what  your  father's  private 
hfve  W™"-  ^V"  ™""'  ^^  "">  *"''"«''*<>  *^"  -'  He  may 
such  t^ngsT      ^*'°"'  '"  •■''  ""'  *^°"^''*=-    ^^  "<='"  <'-="»^d 

Maggie  turned  round  upon  him. 

"I  .!?1°^V  ^^V'™  P-'^'ending.     You've   said    to  yourself    'I 

rri    IJ'  l"'."  "h*  ^  *'"''  "'"'"*  l^^'  f"'*'"  *e  ve"  after 

tend    h»t',,   ''  "°  ',  "  f-T"^'  *'"«  *"  •^°'    W«'^-«  «"  Kot  to  p  t- 

t  ttte?  thaVl  *  t'S'^v -.  ^"*  '■^  -asn't-never.    Who^an  know 

LuIa  ^  ?,'^,"}  ''^  ^'■'y  "'"''"  ""«'  'h''  died?    Didn't 

he's  dea^f  Tt'^       ^v  "'"'"'•  ""''  "^"''  ^  '^^"«'>'«^  °-  *•"> 
v«r.   IJ  everything  to  me.     I've  longed  for  this  day  for 

would  Z    "'"'7!'™  «Vt  "'"*""''  *"*  ^^'«  ^"^  ""d  that  it 

th^n^^^  ^';?1-*'°.^;^''^  ""^ «''™-  i*  ^^idn't  be » good 

and  TlialTht.''^  "  ""  *""«  '"  '^^^  °°^-    ««  ^^  "  ""^  "- 

she^fo'i'dTw'r''''™-'''^'''  "'''^- ,  ^"™'°»  "^y  f"»  her  uncle 
StLnl  1  \-  °''.'?  '''f  "°"  '"''=  »  '-  ^"  ''hild  "od  sobbed. 
Standing  looking  at  her  bent  shoulders,  r  square,  ugly  figu^ 
her  shabby  old  hat  with  its  dingy  black  ribbon,  pushed  a  link  to 
he  side  of  her  head.  Uncle  Mathew  thought  thai  she  was  a  most 
shoulTsh  ""'  ^;  V  ?  *'  *'^"  '"''^  <*''"  "^-t  her  fathcrThy 
tion  for  bl"'''  """^  '^*\"i«J  'h«  »"st  surely  have  some  affec^ 
tion  for  his  memory.    All  he  could  say  was: 

foolSTndtSesT'"'-'"'^"'"^"-     !*'-""«'>*•"     He  felt 

.hf  ^/  T^fi  "T^  "'  '^'''  ^"^'"^  ''^'  «y^«-  "  It's  ™<=h  a  shame," 
He's  sh't  b  Z"''^;';?'  *^'t  ^"''^  "•""  I  *«"  ^"-I  "hout  "im. 
knl  n  *v.  .^"""^  *u''  *■""  ^  ^'=^'-  J3ut  if  you  knew-if  you 
knew— all  the  things  he  did."  '^ 

They  walked  on  again,  entering  Eothin  Wood,    "  He  never  tried 
to  make  me  religious."  she  went  m.    "  He  didn't  care  what  I  felt. 


22  THE  CAPTIVES 

I  Mt  in  the  choir,  and  I  took  a  Sunday-school  elasg.  and  I  visited 
the  villagers  but  I,  myself-what  happened  to  me-he  didn  W 
He  never  took  any  trouble  about  the  church,  he  just  gabbled  the 
prayers  and  preached  the  same  old  sermons.    People  in  theX™ 

onl  "^V  "^v"'  ""l"""*  '"'  <»'«'"  t°  ^  tu^ed  out  but  no 
one  ever  did  anything.    They'll  clean  everything  up  now     There"u 

^Jr"  t"^/"-  '^''^y'"  "*"''  '»"'  '•"l^"  in  l^e  kUchen  floor 
and  the  ceiling  of  my  bedroom.    It  will  be  all  new  and  S  " 

"  And  what  will  you  do.  Maggie  ? "  said  her  uncle,  trying  to  make 
his^voice  indifferent  a,  though  he  had  no  personal  Est  in  her 

"  I  haven't  thought  yet,"  she  said. 

with  merl^ni-  tiT^l  ™'  "^u"'  ^°  ^"^  ""^  *°  ^o"  «">« 
witn  me  f    A  nice  little  place  somewhere  in  London.    I've  felt  ior 

a  long   ime  that  I  should  settle  down.    Your  father  will  hav"  left 

mana^  TT^r'"".  T"?'  ^'^''^''  '»''  i""'  »0"^h  to  „s  to 
manage  comfortably.  And  there  we'd  be,  as  easy  as  anything  I 
can  see  us  very  happy  together."  ""yimng.    i 

'^Nl'-'shl^.W  ""/r'  •''"'■''  *""  ?>""■    ^^^  *'»''  ^^  !>«''<»• 
ISO,    shesaid.       I'm  going  to  live  with  Aunt  Anne  and  Aunt 

Elizabeth.    We  wouldn't  be  happy,  Uncle,  you  and  I.    0°,  house 

would  always  be  m  a  mess  and  there  are  so  many  thin^  that  I 

hTdlircetiaheT''"  ^'--  "-''  *-^  -^  "- 

^^'^^;s^^?S':i!:.;:^^!^n^'-tid:^ 

TJ?.t  "^      ^"'  "'"'  "•■«»  •>«  »«'  ^at  she  had  already  con- 
aidered  the  matter  and  was  firmly  resolved,  his  argumenteZer^^i 

"  Just  consider  a  moment,"  he  said. 

"I  think  it  will  b«  beet  for  me  to  live  with  the  aimts"  .I,- 
answered  firmly.  "They  have  wished  i  tef»e  Oi  S  tht 
It  was  impossible  but  now  it  will  do  very  well " 

He  had  one  more  attempt. 

tJ,r3=f"  T^'*'  '"'''PPy  there,  my  dear,  with  all  their  religion  and 
the  ««t  of  .t-and  two  old  maids.    You'll  see  no  life  ,iTX^ 

That  depends  upon  myself,"  she  answered,  "and  as  to  their 
religion  at  least  they  believe  in  it."  *'' 

anl'lKiUr'  ^'"  "  "  '"^  "'"""'  ™°""''"  ^'"''^  ^'^ 

He  was  angry  and  helpless.     She  seemed  suddenly  some  oi^ 

wth  whom  It  was  impo^ible  to  argue.    He  had  intLdTto  te 


DEATH  OF  REV.  CHABLES  CARDINAL    23 

pthetic,  to  paint  delightful  pictures  of  uncle  and  niece  ahelter- 
ing  snugly  together  defended  by  their  affection   against  a  cold 
and  hostile  Ixindon.     His  own  eyes  had  filled  with  tears  ae  he 
thought  of  it.    What  a  hard,  cold-hearted  girl  she  was  I     Never- 
theless for  the  moment  he  abandoned  the  subject. 
_   That  she  should  go  and  live  with  her  aunts  was  not  for  Maggie 
in  any  way  a  new  idea.     A  number  of  years  ago  when  she  had 
been  a  little  girl  of  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age  her  father 
had  had  a  most  violent  quarrel  with  his  sister  Anne.     Maggie 
had  never  known  the  exact  cause  of  this  although  even  at  that 
period  she  suspected  that  it  was  in  some  way  connected  with 
money.    She  found  afterwards  that  her  father  had  considerpd  that 
certain  pieces  of  furniture  bequeathed  to  the  family  by  a  defunct 
relation  were  his  and  not  his  sister's.     Miss  Anne  Cardinal    a 
lady  of  str  -?  character,  clung  to  her  sofa,  cabinet,  and  porcelain 
bowls,   anil   successfully   maintained   her   right.     The   Reverend 
Charles  forbade  the  further  mention  of  her  name  by  any  member 
of  his  household.    This  quarrel  was  a  grievous  disappointment  to 
Maggie  who  had  often  been  promised  that  when  she  should  be  a 
good  girl  she  should  go  and  stay  with  her  aunts  in  London.    She 
had  invented  for  herself  a  strange  fascinating  picture  of  the  dark 
mysterious  London  house,  with  London  like  a  magic  cauldron 
bubbling  beyond  it.    There  was  moreover  the  further  strangeness 
of  her  aunt  s  religion.    Her  father  in  his  anger  had  spoken  about 
«  V  !'  Z-         ^^^^P^™y"  " <heir  insolence  in  the  eyes  of  God," 
their  blindness  and  ignorant  conceit."    Maggie  had  discovered 
on  a  later  day,  from  her  uncle  that  her  aunts  belonged  to  a  sect 
known  as  the  Kingscote  Brethren  and  that  the  main  feature  of 
their  creed  was  that  they  expected  the  second  coming  of  the  Lord 
God  upon  earth  at  no  very  distant  date. 

"Will  it  really  happen.  Uncle  Mathcw?"  she  asked  in  an  awe- 
struck voice  when  she  first  heard  this. 

''  It's  all  bunkum  if  you  ask  me,"  said  her  uncle.  "  And  it's  had 
a  hardening  effect  on  your  aunts  who  were  kind  women  once,  but 
they  re  completely  in  the  hands  of  the  blackguard  who  runs  their 
in  '1?°°''  •"''"<'^"*«-  I'd  wring  his  neck  if  I  caught  him." 
All  this  was  very  fascinating  to  Maggie  who  was  of  a  practical 
mind  with  regard  to  the  facts  immediately  before  her  but  had 
beyond  them  a  lively  imagination.  Her  life  had  been  so  lonely 
spent  for  the  most  part  so  far  from  children  of  her  own  age,  that 
she  had  "O  test  of  reality.  She  did  not  see  any  reason  why  the 
l.ord  God  should  not  come  again  and  she  saw  every  reason  why 
her  aunts  should  condemn  her  uncle.     That  London  house  swam 


24 


THE  CAPTIVES 


now  in  a  light  struck  partly  from  the  wisdom  and  omniscience  of 
her  aunts,  partly  from  God's  threatened  descent  upon  them 

Aunt  Anne's  name  was  no  longer  mentioned  in  St.  Dreot's  but 
JMaggie  did  not  forget,  and  at  every  new  tyranny  :rom  her  father 
she  thought  to  herself—''  Well,  there  is  London.  I  shall  be  there 
one  day. 

As  th^  walked  Maggie  looked  at  her  uncle.  What  was  he 
really?    He  should  be  a  gentleman  and  yet  he  didn't  look  like  one 

u-^^^^^^  """"^^  *^'  ^^  ^^^  «'  different  times  said  to  her. 

Why,  look  at  myself!"  he  had  on  earlier  days,  half-maudlin 

from     his  drop  at  the  'Bull  and  Bush,'"  exclaimed  to  Maggie 

I  cant  call  myself  a  success!  I'm  a  rotten  failure  if  you  want 
to  know  and  I  had  most  things  in  my  favour  to  start  with,  went 
to  Cambridge,  had  a  good  opening  as  a  h.wristcr.  But  it  wasn't 
quick  enough  for  me.  I  was  restless  and  wanted  to  jump  the 
moon-now  look  at  me!  Same  with  your  father,  only  he's  put 
all  his  imagination  into  money— same  as  your  aunts  have  put 
theirs  into  religion.     We're  not  like  ordinary  people,  us  Cardi- 

"And  have  I  got  »  lot  of  imagination  too!"  Maggie  had  asked 
on  one  occasion. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  her  uncle  had  answered  her.  " Tou 
don  t  look  to  me  like  a  Cardinal  at  all— much  too  quiet.  But  you 
may  have  it  somewhere.    Look  out  for  a  bad  time  if  you  have  " 

To-ds-y  Maggie's  abrupt  checking  of  his  projects  had  made  him 
sulky  and  h=  talked  but  little.  "  Damn  it  all ! "  he  had  started  out 
wift  the  mo3t  charming  intentions  towards  the  girl  and  now  look 
at  her!  Was  it  natural  conduct  in  the  day  after  she  had  lost  her 
only  protector?  No,  it  was  not.  Had  she  been  pretty  he  might 
have,  even  now,  forgiven  her,  but  to-day  she  looked  especially  plain 
with  her  pale  face  and  shabby  black  dress  and  her  obstinate  mouth 
and  chin.  He  was  uneasy  too  about  the  imminent  .ii  rival  of  his 
sister  Anne,  who  always  frightened  him  and  made  him  think 
poorly  of  the  world  in  general.  No  hope  of  getting  any  money 
out  of  her,  nor  would  Charles  have  left  him  a  penny.  It  was  a 
rotten,  unsympathetic  world,  and  Uncle  Mathew  cursed  God  as  he 
strutted  sulkily  along.    Maggie  also  had  fallen  into  silence. 

They  came  at  last  out  of  the  wood  and  stood  at  the  edge  of  it 
with  the  pine  trees  behind  them,  looking  down  over  Polchester. 
On  this  winters  afternoon  Polchester  with  the  thin  covering  of 
snow  upon  its  roofs  sparkled  like  a  city  under  glass.  The 
Cathedral  was  dim  in  the  mist  of  the  early  dusk  and  the  sun, 
setting  behind  the  hill,  with  its  last  rays  caught  the  windows  so 


DEATH  OP  BEV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL  25 

tibat  they  Mazed  through  the  hazo  like  smoking  fires.     Whilst 
Maggie  and  her  uncle  stood  there  the  bells  began  7o  ring  for 

£h?n'n'  ""''  ^/"r''  '""'  »  *"»'  ™''»  '«*»«1  '0  oome'from 
behmd  them  out  of  the  wood.  In  the  spring  all  the  Pdoha?^ 
orchards  would  be  white  and  pink  with  blossom,  in  "ho  s„mmer 
the  nvcr  hat  encircled  the  city  wall  would  run  iie  Iblu  3 
between  .ts  green  sloping  hills-now  there  was  frost  and  snow 
?t  n„^'  T\"';  ^"'^  ™»"lde"n«r  at  its  heart.  She  gazed  a" 
nZ  "''^'.Y  "'"f  ?«^«i  "t  it  before.  She  was  gls  into 
It  now.  Iler  hfo  was  beginning  at  last.  When  the  sun  had  left 
the  windows  and  the  walls  were  grey  she  turned  back  into  Z 
wood  and  led  the  way  silently  towards  home. 

in  it  Sbr.,!*"!*  "'**"  r'/e-^  strange  with  her  father  dead 
H„    ■    ^''\?*v''f »"?«  «h?  thought  it  her  duty,  in  his  bedroom 

Um^Zt  r^""  *'"'/'"*'•  ^'"  "'<"«*  '^^  ""d  """th  gave 
lim  a  grave  and  reverend  appearance  which  he  had  never  worn 
m  h.s  hfe.  He  lay  there,  under  the  flickering  candle  Hght  lite 
7Z.TZ  1°  ■'  ^'Tb  "/'"  "  "^o  "f  -^^«  discipHn  had 
Mack  boi  '"^  ^"^-     ^"""''^  *''"  ''^"l  ""»  the  big 

Maggie  did  not  look  at  her  father.    She  sat  there,  near  the  dark 

all  except  the  rats.  She  was  not  afraid  of  them  but  they  worried 
her.    They  had  been  a  trouble  in  the  house  for  a  long  time  oast 

Thrhadtd""  'r'  '"  *'%"  ""'•  *^y  """^  'efu-7to"  ke  t 
r»tf  t^  •  """"."P''  f "'  *'"  °*  *«  Heverend  Charles,  at  any 

rate  they  scampered  and  scurried  now  behind  the  wainscoting  as 
though  conscous  of  their  release.  "Even  the  rats  are  glad" 
Maggie  thought  to  herself.  In  the  uncertain  candle-light  the 
fancy  seiEcd  her  that  one  rat,  a  very  large  one,  had  crept  ou? 
from  h,8  hole,  crawled  on  to  the  bed,  and  now  sat  on  the  sheet 
loo  .ng  at  her  father.  It  would  be  a  horrible  thing  did  the  rat 
walk  across  her  f other's  beard,  and  yet  for  her  life  fhe  could  n" 
move  She  waited,  fascinated.  She  fancied  that  the  beard  stirred 
a  uttle  as  though  the  rat  had  moved  it.  She  fancied  that  the 
rat  grew  and  grew  in  size,  now  there  were  many  of  them  all 
with  their  little  sharp  beady  ev.s  watching  the  corpL  Now  t'her ' 
were  none;  only  the  largo  imbs  outlined  beneath  the  spreld  the 
waxen  face,  the  ticking  clock,  the  strange  empty  sh/p"  of  his 
grey  dressing-gown  hanging  upon  a  nail  on  the  wall.  Where  was 
her  father  gone?  She  did  not  .now,  she  did  rot  care-on  y  The 
trusted  that  she  would  never  m«.t  him  again-never  again  '^Her 


m 


26 


THE  CAPTIVES 


he»d  nodd«d;  ber  hinds  and  feet  were  cold;  the  ctndle-liKht 
jumped,  the  nti  MUDpered  .   .  .  ihe  alept 

When  it  was  quite  dark  beyond  the  windows  and  the  candle* 
were  low  Maggie  came  downstairs,  stiff,  cold,  and  very  hungry. 
She  felt  that  it  was  wrong  to  have  slept  and  very  wrong  to  b» 
hungry,  but  there  it  was;  she  did  not  pretend  to  herself  that  things 
were  other  than  they  were.  In  the  dining-room  she  found  supper 
laid  out  upon  the  table,  cold  beef,  potatoes  in  their  jackets,  cold 
beetroot,  jelly,  and  cheese,  and  her  uncle  playing  cards  on  the 
unoccupied  end  of  the  table  in  a  melancholy  manner  by  himself. 
She  felt  that  it  was  wrong  of  him  to  play  cards  on  such  an  oc- 
casion, but  the  cards  were  such  dirty  grey  ones  and  be  obtained 
obviously  so  little  pleasure  from  his  amusement  that  he  could  not 
be  considered  to  be  wildly  abandoning  himself  to  riot  and  extrava- 
gance. 

She  felt  pleasure  in  his  company;  for  the  first  time  since  her 
father's  death  she  was  a  little  frightened  and  uneasy.  She  might 
even  have  gone  to  him  and  cried  on  his  shoulder  had  he  given  her 
any  encouragement,  but  he  did  not  speak  to  her  except  to  say 
that  he  had  already  eaten.    He  was  still  a  little  sulky  with  her. 

TOen  she  had  finished  her  meal  she  sat  in  her  accustomed  chair 
by  the  fire,  her  head  propped  on  her  hands,  looking  into  the  flame, 
and  there,  half-asleep,  half-awake,  memories,  conversations,  long- 
vanished  scenes  trooped  before  her  eyes  as  though  they  were  bid- 
ding her  a  long  farewell.  She  did  not,  as  she  sat  there,  senti- 
mentalise about  any  of  them,  she  saw  them  as  they  were,  some 
happy,  some  unhappy,  some  terrifying,  some  amusing,  all  of  them 
dead  and  passed,  grey  and  thin,  the  life  gone  out  of  them.  Her 
mind  was  fixed  on  the  future.  What  was  it  going  to  be?  Would 
she  have  money  as  her  uncle  had  said?  Would  she  see  London  and 
the  world?  Would  sho  find  friends  people  who  would  be  glad 
to  he  with  her  and  have  her  with  them?  What  would  her  aunts 
be  like?  and  so  from  them,  what  about  all  the  other  members  of 
the  family  of  whom  she  had  heard  ?  She  painted  for  herself  a  gay 
srene  in  which,  at  the  door  of  some  great  house,  a  fine  gathering 
of  Cardinals  waited  with  smilen  and  outstretched  hands  to  wel- 
come her.  Then,  laughing  at  herself  as  she  always  did  when  she 
had  allowed  her  fancy  free  rein,  she  shook  her  head.  No,  it  cer- 
tainly would  not  be  like  that.  Relations  were  not  like  that.  That 
was  not  the  way  to  face  the  world  to  encourage  ron.antic  dreams. 
Her  uncle,  watching  her  surreptitiously,  wondered  of  what  she  was 
thinking.  Her  determined  treatment  of  him  that  afternoon  con- 
tinued to  surprise  him.    She  certainly  ought  to  make  her  way  in 


DEATH  OF  BEV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL    27 

the  world,  but  what  .pity  that  ihe  was  so  plain.  Perhaps  if  .he 
^lT!\  '"'""V"*"  '■"'=''«*••  drewed  better.  bn..hed  her  hair 
foo T.  ""^IIh  k"  r""*  """'l-'-y  ^  too  large  and  her  now 
too  .mall-and  her  figure  wa.  .baurd.  Uncle  Mathew  coniidered 
that  he  was  a  judge  of  women.  ■■"ereu 

He  rose  at  last  and,  rather  shamefacedly,  aaid  that  he  should 
Wm  ^"  "{'88'«  "/"."dered  at  the  confusion  that  .he  detected  in 
him.    She  looked  at  him  and  he  dropped  his  eye. 

"  Good  night.  Uncle  Mathew." 
1!„^'  ''"'•«=d  •' h"  then  and  noticed  by  her  white  face  and  dark- 
lined  eye.  what  a  strain  the  day  had  been  to  her.    He  .aw  again 
the  figure  ,n  the  shabby  black  hat  sobbing  in  the  lane.    He  fSd" 
r^tn  ^'t  »"°'„''5°"}  ^l'  '"d  »«M  her  close  to  him.     She 

m,tt?n=.  I  u  "J"""^  ??  "i'''''y-  ''"'  "'"  ^«"  •"»  kindness,  and 
puttmg  her  hand   on  his   fat  shoulder  kissed    once   more   hi. 

When  he  had  left  her,  her  weariness  came  suddenly  down  upon 

lamp  swelled  before  her  tired  eye.  a.  thouRh  it  had  been  an  evil 
unhealthy  flower     The  table  slid  into  the  chairs  and  th^  cold  teef 

maTL"'  ""t  'f'- 1^'  Pj^*"™  '""'^^  «•">  '^  clock  ran  in  a 
mad  TCurry  backwards  and  forward.. 

She  dragged  her  dazed  body  up  through  the  silent  houM  to  her 

bedroom  undressed,  was  instantly  in  bed  and  asleep. 

bhe  slept  without  dreams  but  woke  suddenly  as  though  she  had 

W  !r^tK°'°  •*'"  ';'t''  °^  °"'-  S'"'  '"*  "P  i°  bed  knowing 
iTfi^^-  "•V"'P™T  «f  her  heart  that  she  was  Kized  with  panic 
w„  n  f  h*M  "  1^^'  •*["  ?"?•  "°  """"  ^"  her  alarm.  The  room 
haH  ^  h\  •  T^  t^^r"  "^  "8ht  here  and  there,  but  she 
H?ir5  ''";  "■**?  infusion  of  her  sleep,  uncertainty  as  to  the 
different  parts  of  the  room.  What  had  awakened  herf  Of  what 
ZtX  I  ^•7'"?.'.'^',.  Then  suddenly,  as  one  slit,  a  black  screen 
with  a  knife,  a  thin  line  of  light  cracked  the  darkness.  As  though 
IZZ  °°!.  .1  ^hispered  it  in  her  ear  she  krew  that  the  door  was 
there  and  the  dark  well  of  uncertainty  into  which  she  had  been 
plunged  was  suddenly  changed  into  her  own  room  where  she  could 
recognise  the  window,  the  chest  of  drawers,  the  looking-glass,  the 
chairs.  Some  one  was  opening  her  door  and  her  first  thought  that 
It  was  of  course  her  father  was  checked  instantly  by  the  knowledge 
conveyed  again  as  though  some  one  had  whispered  to  her  tLt 
her  father  was  dead. 

The  thin  line  of  light  was  now  a  wedge,  it  wavered,  drew  back 
to  a  spider'a  thread  again,  then  broadened  with  a  flush  of  colour 


«8  THE  CAPTIVES 

into  a  •tretniiog  path.    Some  one  itood  in  the  doorway  holding 
■  candle.    Mantie  saw  that  it  waa  Uncle  MatLcw  in  hia  ahirt  and 
trousera. 
"Whatiiit?"ahesaid. 

He  awajred  as  he  stood  there,  his  candle  making  fantastic  leapa 
and  shallowa  of  light.  He  was  smiling  at  her  in  a  silly  way  and 
ahe  saw  that  he  was  drunk.  She  had  had  a  horror  of  drunkenneaa 
ever  since,  as  a  little  girl,  she  had  watched  an  inebriated  carter 
kicking  his  wife.  She  always,  after  that,  aaw  tho  woman's  bent 
head  and  stooping  shoulders.  Now  she  knew,  sitting  up  in  bed, 
that  she  was  frightened  not  only  of  Uncle  Mathew,  but  of  the 
house,  of  the  whole  world. 

She  was  alone.  She  realised  her  loneliness  in  a  great  flash  of 
bewilderment  and  cold  terror  as  though  tho  ground  had  suddenly 
broken  away  from  her  and  she  was  on  the  edge  of  a  vast  pit. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  house  to  help  her.  Her  father  was  dead! 
The  cook  and  the  maid  were  sunk  in  heavy  slumber  at  the  other 
end  of  the  house.  There  was  no  one  to  help  her.  She  was  alone, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  in  the  shock  of  that  discovery  she 
realised  that  she  would  always  be  alone  now,  for  the  rest  of  her 
life. 

"What  is  it,  Uncle  Mathew!"  she  said  again.  Her  voice  was 
steady,  although  her  heart  hammered.  Some  other  part  of  her 
brain  was  wondering  where  Ii  was  that  he  had  got  the  drink. 
He  must  have  had  a  bottle  of  whisky  in  his  room ;  she  remembered 
his  shyness  when  he  said  good-night  to  her. 

He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  swaying  on  his  feet  and 
amihng  at  her.  The  flame  of  the  light  rose  and  fell  in  jerks  and 
spasms. 

"  I  thought,"  he  said,  "  I'd  come— to  see  m'  little  Maggie,  m' 
little  niece,  jus'  to  talk  a  lill  bit  and  cheer  her  up— up."  He  drew 
nearer  the  bed.  "  She'll  be  lonely,  I  said— lonely— very— aren't 
you — lonely  Maggie?" 

"It's  very  late,"  she  said,  "and  you're  dropping  grease  all  over 
the  floor  with  that  candle.  Tou  go  back  to  bed,  uncle.  I'm  all 
right.    You  go  back  to  bed." 

"Go  back?  No,  no,  no.  Oh  no,  not  back  to  bed.  It'll 
soon  be  mornin'.  That'll  be  jolly— jolly.  We'll  talk— together  till 
mornin'." 

He  put  the  candle  on  a  chair,  nearly  falling  as  he  did  so,  then 
came  towards  her.  He  stood  over  her,  his  shirt,  open  at  the  neck, 
protuberating  over  his  stomach,  his  short  thick  legs  swaying.  His 
red,  unshaven  face  with  the  trembling  lips  was  hateful  to  her. 


DEATH  OP  REV.  CHARLES  CARDINAL 


29 


Suddenly  he  ut  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  and  put  hit  htndi  out 
towirdi  her.    He  caught  her  hair. 

"  My  little  Magipc — my  little  Mamrie,"  he  Mid. 

The  fright,  the  lerror.  the  panic  that  aeited  her  waa  like  tho 
audden  riling  of  aome  black  figure  who  grew  before  her,  bent 
towarda  hir  and  with  coM  hard  finger*  aqueeied  her  throat.  For 
an  inatant  ahc  was  helpleaa,  quivering,  weak  in  every  bone  of 
her  body. 

Then  aome  one  Raid  to  her; 

"  But  you  con  mimngo  thia." 

"  I  can  manage  this,"  ahe  anawercd  almoet  aloud. 

"  You're  alone  now.  You  mustn't  let  thinga  bo  too  much  for 
you." 

She  jumped  out  of  bed,  on  the  farther  aide  away  from  her 
nncle.  She  p\it  on  her  dreeaing-gown.  She  atood  and  pointed  at 
the  door. 

" Now,  uncle,  you  go  ha*  to  your  room— at  once.  It'a  disgrace- 
ful coming  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  disturbing  every  one 
Go  back  to  bed." 

Tho  new  tone  in  her  voice  atartled  him.  He  looked  at  her  in 
a  bewildered  fashion.    He  got  up  from  the  bed. 

"Why,  Maggie — I  only — only " 

He  stared  from  her  to  tho  candle  and  from  the  candle  back  to 
her  again. 

"  Now  go,"  she  repented.    "  Quick  now." 

He  hung  his  head.  "  Now  you're  angry— angry  with  your  poor 
ole  uncle— poor  olo  unc'.c."  He  looked  at  her,  hia  eyea  puzzled  as 
though  he  had  never  seen  her  before. 

"You're  very  hard."  he  said,  shaking  hia  head.  He  atumbled 
towarda  the  door— "Very  hard,"  he  repeated,  and  went  out,  his 
head  still  hnngin;?. 

She  heard  him  knock  his  foot  against  the  stairs.  Soon  there 
was  silence. 

She  blew  out  the  candle  and  went  back  to  bed.  She  lay  there, 
her  heart,  at  first,  throbbing,  her  eyes  straining  the  darkness.  Then 
she  grew  more  tranquil.  She  felt  in  her  heart  a  strange  triumph 
as  though  already  she  had  begun  life  and  had  begun  it  with  suc- 
cess. She  thought,  before  she  sank  deep  into  sleep,  that  anything 
would  yield  to  one  did  one  only  deal  sensibly  with  it.  .  .  .  After 
all,  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  be  done. 


('1 


life 


CHAPTER n 
^WT  am 

•he  do  then?    WhithTr  .hluW  .?  ">", '°^' house.    What  .hould 

looked  b,,4Tn,o  the  1a^  0  Inen  fh-"  *T  "?  •■"  ''*•''  '"•^ 
more  the  breakfa.t  hut  .h?  kL  .  J'-  ?  ""''•  "'"'  ™™e  *<>  ra- 
te.,, that  S" me".nd  Vhe,  %^Z  tw'l*"  ^V/  ""''  -^ 
.nd  obacure.  ^      °  *°"*  *''*  ""''d  "««  miity 

There  wag  ahe  fancied,  .omething  stranse  .bout  iril.n     t     i 
eye.  Mme  obacure  triumph  or  excitement   .„m«  f".*^'' 

30 


AUNT  ANNE  «| 

"VeiT  good.  Uiu  Haggle.    V«iy  good." 

Sho  h»ted  th«t  ho  ihouM  ciU  her  Ifiu  Higgia.  Ha  had  alwan 

treated  ho,  with  con«d.,able  reapect.  but  tX  ah.  fancW  thS 
ho  patronwd  her.     Ho  placed  hia  hand  for  .  moment  on  her 

Thin.r'^^  "d  blew  h..  noae.    He  atrutted  about  tho  room. 
Ihen  the  door  oj^ned  and  Ellen  the  cook  looked  in  upon  them. 

jouJ"        "         '"  ""•  ^'"'  """•'"  ^  ""'<•  '1°  •»'<''''«  ^»' 

"Nothing,  thank  you,"  aaid  Maggie. 

« 2"°  "'.'!' i°"  •'"""'  »'"■•  'bat  woman!"  aaid  Mr.  Bnaay. 
"  Yea,"  aaid  Maggie.  "  about  five  yeara,  I  think," 

Hum!    Hum— name  of  Harmer." 
"Yea.    Harmer." 
"Not  married  I" 
''  No,"  answered  Maggie,  wondering  at  thia  intantt 

Not  ao  far  as  you  know." 
"  No.    She'a  alwaya  Misa  Harmer." 
"Quite  so— quite  ao.    Dear  me,  yea." 

Other  people  appeared,  aaked  question,  and  vanished,  tt  aeemed 
to  have  been  all  taken  out  of  her  hands  and  it  w.r.tr.ngT"ow 
.  -Khte  thi.  made  her.    For  so  many  years  ,ho  haJ  had  tl.e  man- 

U^.TM,"'-!;  ^^^''l  "r  •■"  ^'""'^'^  birthday  tnZd. 
Ugly  and  dilapidated  though  the  place  had  been,  it  had  grol™ 
after  a  time,  to  belong  to  her,  and  she  had  felt  as  though  i t  w^ 

Now  it  had  auddenly  withdrawn  itself  and  was  preparing  for  the 
next  comer.  Maggie  felt  this  quite  definitely  and  thought  that 
S±^  JI  T,*'"?  *l:'i  "r  •"  "°*  "»"'<•  >>«  mended'and  ita 
'^bu'^'eniUotg.  '"»'**•"'"- ''"°«-  •  •  ■  Well,  .he  would 
There  were  sound,  then  of  wheel,  on  the   gravel      The  old 

f.  In  !'f  .w^""",  '^'i°*°"  ''"■  '*»  "<=''««y  '''■"J'""  «nd  moth- 
eaten  seats  that  smelt  of  straw  and  beer  was  standing  at  the  door, 
the  horse  puifing  great  breaths  of  steam  into  the  frofen  air  Her 
aunt  had  arrived.    Maggie,  standing  behind  the  window,  looked 

hTlY  ^K  ""^"T"^  to  straighten  itself  out  and  rose  to  its  full 
n^!"/."  *''f,  ^"■""l  P«*^  »»  though  it  had  been  sitting  in  the  cab 
pressed  together,  its  head  upon  its  knees. 

Then  in  the  hall  that  was  dark  even  on  the  brightest  day,  Aunt 


I 


tk 


n] 


9l- 

m'  ■ 


^r 


THE  CAPTIVES 


fit^^aS-'i^Xk  .^Ihe^hl^-r-  -'  -*  *-  tan,  <rf  . 
Her  face  was  grave  and  =Wnf^  "^T"  ""'^  «  "^'^k  bonnet, 
rather,  and  of  Zl^i^?l^^t^:  ^'X'""^  •^^^^— "^ 
Dreot's  east  end   window  wearr    sL!^*    the  V„g,n  ;„  jj,^  g^ 

hall,  quietly,  quite  apart"riitHs?feth:r  '"  '\  '"'''^ 
she  seemed  to  Maggie  even  in  .h»V  fi^f  '  surrounded  her, 

wrapt,  eaught  away'1„*'t„Te"  ^wn' wlionT  """"'"*  '"'^  =°"«  »»« 

i  paid  the  cabman  five  shillinirs  "  aho  ==,m 
hope  that  was  right.    And  you  ar^S^ggtare  yor^'^^  "'"^-     "^ 

one  bent  down  and  kisso,!  1,=,     rr      i-  "     ' 

forting.  Maggie  who  had  wV,™  ?""  ''^^  ^"^  ™™  «nd  com- 
off-hand  manner  of  a  boy  iTd  ""'  ''"^'  '"""""^  »*  'he 

Th^'we^t^'ntf thtdinin'I^or^'b"  ^'^^  "^  ^"^  """^  -•" 
ea^^  Ward  to  tJt,  twfng  ^s  ;;::ds  Ttht.  ^1^  - 

brl'tw:  We'r'Ve^^V^rt'^^";"^  '^  ^"'---  ^"^^ 

strange  new  -citemen   Tt 'h:r  he  rt      ShrLd"""""^  "'  ^"""^ 
one  who  in  the  least  resemhl»^  ti.-  ^he  had  never  seen  any 

did  not  know  whaitTa?  that  sie  hT''  """"l^  T'"^"'    ^f-^^'^ 
had  not  b..en  this     Thit  „/  t.*^  expected,  but  certainly  it 

recalled  her  ?a  S  r  and  h"  un  le'Tomelb?  "•  \  ^"-''^  ^'«'«  'hat 
in  the  width  and  height  oTt^ZS 'buf^vr' "'"^!'''"'^ 
only  accentuated  the  astounding  difference     MaUv,  I'T^^'""^ 
sion  was  her  ultimate  one-that  her  aunt  had  !.        1  '""•"'■ 
some  stained-glass  window  intn  »  „iu         ,j    u^'^''^"''  ""'  "^ 
wilder  her  only  because  she  did  .,•  "1'"''^  "'"'  ^'<*  °°'  he- 
found  herself  wondering  who  hfd  fastenT^  ""'"^  "•     ^"^'^^ 
strings  when  she  rose  in  7hp^;„    •    ^^  'f  """'^  buttons  and 
in  the  right  train  and  descSndTd  at  tt    •  1.'''''  '^'  "'"  '"^^''^-l 
she  remember  such  trifles  when  t    X"^u   "°"™'    ^°'  ^^''^ 
distant  compelling  d«ams?     The!      "^, ","''"  ^^'^  ""  ^"'^h 
brushed  back  from  the  forehead  the  ,Hn°i:/°''\"'^  '''"^'^  ^air 
fingers,   the   black  Xss    thf  '  I»nV         ^"?  "'"'  '»"«  '«?«""» 
against  the  cold  bright  wn'^^unLh?"^"'   ^°^'-'^''   ««"" 

„4"  aunt  looked  about  her  as  though  she  had  Just  awaked  from 


I 


AUNT  ANNE  J3 

xes,  dear,  thank  you— I  will "  .«;a    m  ■     ,      , 

moved  from  the  room,  A\mt  An^ewnll-  ''t  ^""^  °-'  ^hey 
clumsy  uncertainty,  h^ltiCftom  oL  f^  f  ""'^  "  'I""^"  "'"o" 
she  had  never  learnt  to  tfustww!  '  '"'  """''  "  ""'"e'' 
Maggie  was  to  become  intensely  famutar''    1*'"'""'  "'•"  "''''"' 

Lisp  gleamed  like  a  huS  ^  •  !^'  ""^  ''"P'^S  shadows  the 
There  was  a  high  bS  1  frh'*'"'^.'''^'?^.'''  "''  *°  *<>  ^^o- 
Against  this  Miss  Cardinal  l„tl  °.t^  '.''"''"  ^^  ^^^  '''"^ow. 
less,  as  though  t  Fad  blpatted'in"  ^'^  '?''^°'^'^-  "°"'«'- 
She  gazed  before  her  "  '™^  ^'°''  ''^''•°<i  J"^'- 

sun'^SinTthtlfMrro^'^r?'  ^^'"■™f'^'-  --^-     The 

eie.    Then  Maggie  Laid  L„ay:  •    ^'""'''•' "»he  smiled  at  Mag- 

He'shaT/fi."^  "^"P^""^'  *'"«'«f<"«  «"  I  lock  nothing, 
the  wate™  or^omf'ort  "  "'""  '"""*'  """^  '-"^  -«  ^"■?''  beside 

rigtorerfrHu'Cm^rslkl""'^  ""'  ""'''  "  *'»  P"*'-  "f 

o.^ii&t^r-;&-s:z^--^- todays 


Si 

Mil 


lb 


^fll 


34 


THE  CAPTIVES 


th„  Ih  tk'  ^  ^'"-  f""?  '°"''  "«  ^"  bonnet  and  laid  it  on 
W  ■  ;;,  '°  she'esu-ned  her  stand  at  the  window,  her  eyw 
lost  m  the  sunny  distance.  "I  did  wrong,"  ,he  said,  as  thotet 
she  were  speakmg  to  herself.  "I  should  not  have  a  lowed  that 
quarrel  w.th  your  father.  1  regret  it  now  very  deepl"  But  we 
tu3'  tten  '     "  ""''^"""=''  °f  "«  '  •o"«l  self-will  "She 

"  Come  here,  dear,"  she  said 

Maggie  came  to  her.  Her  aunt  looked  at  her  and  Maggie  was 

&  xTn  °"  1  ^"  ^';«''''y  <^'^^^.  her  rough  hands,  her  ug^^ 
boots.  Then,  as  always  when  she  was  self-critical,  her  eyes  erew 
haughty  and  her  mouth  defiant.  * 

wa™  /eck.'  ''"'"^  *""'  ^"  '°°^'  *""  ^"^^^  "««-«*  ">«  8-1'^ 
ago.'^™  will  come  to  us  now,  dear.    You  should  have  come  long 

^f^P'e  wanted  to  speak,  but  she  could  not 
life."  ''''"  "^  *°  "^''*  ''""  •'°PP^'  *""'  »""  "  °<"  «°  e^'oiting 
Maggie's  ejsres  lit  up.  "It  has  not,"  she  said,  "been  very  ex- 
erting  *.re  always."  Then  she  went  on,  colour  in  her  cheete  "I 
thmk  father  did  all  he  could.  I  feel  now  that  there  were  a  lot  of 
ttrn/n'  ''"f/"™  'r-  ""'^  ^  '^''^"'*  ^  the"  Vt^'the 
off":;di^'r!!su"g:S.  "^  '"  '^'^  '-'"''  ""'  '  -^•'  °-  '•""  I  •""! 
Her  lips  quivered,  again  she  was  near  tears,  and  again  as  it  had 

fXr^h  rf""^  "'"'  ^"1'^  ^''^'^-  ^'^  -8«'  wa    not  fo    her 
father  but  for  the  waste  that  her  life  with  him  had  been      But 

dere'ir™'*:,"?  '"  ''"..'""°'  *»'  P«^™'«d  compTte  confi' 
dence.    She  seemed  m  something  to  be  outside  small  daily  troubles 

fnin  I  m'^;:''^  '^""^  '"y '"°"'  ">"«  ^^^^ « ^nock  on  the  To; 

If.^^  fntTstire.^'"-    ^^  ^^""'^  ''"'  """''"«  ''°»''  -"-^ 

He  most  certainly  did  not  appear  at  his  best,  a  large  niece  of 

P  aster  on  hi,  right  cheek  showing  where  he  had  c„    hSseHith 

su  t  and\?d  ."•'■'"'''^  Ta  i'.^""*  ""^'^  ™'»  (■'  '"'»  >"'  London 
suit  and  had  lam  crumpled  disastrously  in  his  hand-bag)  accen- 
tuating the  undue  roundness  of  his  limbs;  his  eyes  blinked  and 

to  ;l,n  :  '"•?'  """^  """«.''''  "'^^«  "  ''''t^'7  wink  as  though 
to  implore  her  silence  as  to  his  various  misdemeanours 

iJrother  and  sister  shook  hands,  and  Maggie,  as  she  watched 
them,  was  surprised  to  feel  within  herself  a  certain  syTpatry  wift 


AUNT  AKXE  36 

her  uncle.     Aunt  Anne's  greetinpr  was  gentle  and  kind  but  in- 
tnitely  distant,  and  had  something  of  the  tenderness  with  which 
the  Pope  T/Hshes  the  feet  of  the  beggars  in  Rome. 
"  I'm  so  glad  that  you  were  here,"  she  said  in  her  soft  voice. 
It  must  have  beeii  such  a  comfort  to  Maggie." 
"  He  has  been,  indeed,  Aunt  Anne,"  Maggie  broke  in  eagerly. 
Her  uncle  looked  at  her  with  great  surprise;  after  his  behaviour 
of  last  mght  he  had  not  expected  this.    Reassured,  he  began  a 
voluble  explanation    of  his    movements   and   plans,    rubbing   his 
hands  together  and  turning  one  boot  against  the  other. 

He  had  a  groat  deal  to  say,  because  he  had  seen  neither  of  his 
sisters  for  a  very  long  time.  Then  he  wished  to  make  a  good 
impression  because  Maggie,  the  heiress,  would  be  of  importance 
now.  What  an  idiot  he  had  been  last  night.  What  had  he  done! 
He  could  remember  nothing.  It  was  evident  that  it  had  been 
nothing  very  bad— Maggie  bore  him  no  grudge— good  girl,  Maggie. 
He  felt  affectionate  towards  her  and  would  have  told  her  so  had 
her  aunt  not  been  present.  These  thoughts  underlay  his  rambling 
history.  He  was  aware  suddenly  that  his  audience  was  inatten- 
tive. He  saw,  indeed,  that  his  sister  was  standing  with  her  back 
half-turned,  gazing  on  to  the  shining  country  beyond  the  window. 
He  ceased  abruptly,  gave  his  niece  a  wink,  and  when  this  was 
unsuccessful,  muttering  a  few  words,  stumbled  out  of  the  room. 

The  whole  village  attended  the  funeral,  not  because  it  liked  the 
Rev.  Charles,  but  because  it  liked  funerals.  Maggie  was,  in  all 
probability,  the  only  person  present  who  thought  very  deeply  about 
the  late  Vicar  of  St.  Dreot's.  The  Rev.  Tom  Trefusis  who  con- 
ducted the  ceremony  was  a  large  red-faced  man  who  had  played 
Rugby  football  for  his  University  and  spent  most  of  his  energy 
o/er  the  development  of  cricket  and  football  clubs  up  end  down 
the  county.  He  could  not  be  expected  to  have  cared  very  greatly 
for  the  Rev.  Charles,  who  had  been  at  no  period  of  his  life  and 
in  no  possible  sense  of  the  word  a  sportsman.  As  he  conducted  the 
service  his  mind  speculated  as  to  the  next  vicar  (the  Rev.  Tom 
knew  an  excellent  fellow,  stroke  of  the  Cambridge  boat  in  '12,  who 
would  be  just  the  man)  the  possibility  of  the  frost  breaking  in 
time  for  the  inter-county  Rugby  match  at  Truxe,  the  immediate 
return  of  his  wife  from  London  (he  was  very  fond  of  his  wife), 
and,  lastly,  a  certain  cramp  in  the  stomach  that  sometimes  "  bowled 
him  over "  and  of  which  the  taking  of  a  funeral—"  here  to-day 
and  gone  to-morrow  "—always  reminded  him. 

"  Wonder  how  long  HI  last,"  he  thought  as  he  stood  over  the 
grave  of  the  Rev.  Charles  and  let  his  eyes  wander  over  the  little 


111 


r  " 


f  i 


I, 


^^  THE  CAPTIVES 

white  gravestones   that   ran   almost  into  the  AarV  ^.11     t   a. 

Maggie,  meanwhile,  watched  the  final  disappearance  of  her  f»»),„. 
with  an  ever-Krowini  remnroo     P™    •       •'i^""'""'  01  ner  tatier 

sut,"'i  E?F?r  r"?^"£  ;i 

oominTSo^Vj'e""'"-''  """^  "■'™  ""  ^  '''^  '^"^^^^  <^  the 

Maggie  spent  the  rest  of  the  day,  for  the  m  „t  n,,f    .1 
her  room  and  thinking  of  her  father      Vllrh!^  ^     '  ''""^  '.° 

there  had  heen  no  oZ' i^,Z-r:iL'^^\^: t^a'Z 


AUNT  ANNE 


37 


wished  It,  she  had  always  placed  an  intercity  of  feeling  around 
and  about  the  few  things  that  were  hers.  Her  library  was  very 
small,  but  this  did  not  distress  her  because  she  had  never  cared  for 
reading.  Upon  the  little  hanging  shelf  above  her  bed  (deal  wood 
painted  white,  with  blue  cornflowers)  were  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe 
a  shabby  blue-covered  copy,  ministering  Children,  Madame  How 
and  Lady  Why,  The  Imitation  of  Christ,  Robinson  Crusoe,  Mrs 
Beetons  Cookery  Book,  The  Holy  Bible,  and  The  Poems  of  Long- 
fellow  These  had  been  given  her  upon  various  Christmasses  and 
birthdays,  bhe  did  not  care  for  any  of  them  except  The  Imitation 
of  Christ  and  Bobtnson  Crusoe.  The  Bible  was  spoilt  for  her  by 
incessant  services  and  Sunday  School  classes;  The  Heir  of  Red- 
clyffe and  Mimsterzng  Children  she  found  absurdly  sentimental 
and  unlike  any  life  that  she  had  ever  known;  Mrs.  Beeton  she  had 
never  opened  and  iony/W/oa;  and  Kingsley's  Natural  History  she 
found  dull.  For  Robinson  Crusoe  she  had  the  intense  human  sym- 
pathy that  all  lonely  people  feel  for  that  masterpiece.  The  Imita- 
tion phased  her  by  what  she  would  have  called  its  common  sense, 
buch  u  passage,  for  example:  "Oftentimes  something  lurketh 
withm,  or  else  occurreth  from  without,  which  draweth  us  after  it. 
Mary  secretly  seek  themselves  in  what  they  do,  and  know  it  not. 
Ihey  seem  also  to  live  in  good  peace  of  mind,  when  things 
are  done  according  to  their  will  and  opinion;  but  if  things  happen 
otherwise  than  they  desire,  they  are  straightway  moved  and  much 
vexed. 

And  ijehind  this  common  sense  she  did  seem  to  be  directly  in 
touch  with  some  one  whom  she  might  find  had  she  more  time  and 
friends  to  advise  her.  She  was  conscious  in  her  lonely  hours,  that 
nothing  gave  her  such  a  feeling  of  company  as  did  this  little 
battered  red  book,  and  she  felt  that  that  friendliness  might  one 
day  advance  to  some  greater  intimacy.  About  these  things  she  was 
intensely  reserved  and  she  spoke  of  them  to  no  human  being 

±.ven  for  the  books  for  whose  contents  she  did  not  care  she  had 
a  kindly  feeling.  So  often  had  they  looked  down  upon  her  when 
she  sat  there  exasperated,  angry  at  her  own  tears,  rebellious  after 
some  scene  with  her  father.  No  other  place  but  this  room  had 
seen  these  old  agonies  of  hers.    She  would  be  sorry  after  all  to  leave 

There  were  not  many  things  beside  the  books.  Two  bowls  of 
blue  Glebeshire  pottery,  cheap  things  but  precious,  a  box  plastered 
with  coloured  shells,  an  amber  bead  necklace,  a  blue  leather  writing- 
case,  a  photograph  of  her  father  as  a  young  clergyman  with  a  beard 
and  whiskers,  a  faded  daguerreotype  of  her  mother,  last    but  by 


;i 


!l 


m 


38  THE  CAPTIVES 

no  mean«  least,  a  small  black  lacquer  musical-box  that  played  two 
tunes,  Weel  may  the  Keel  row"  and  "John  Peel,"-tlie»e  were 
ner  worldly  possessions. 

She  sat  there;  as  the  day  closed  down,  the  trees  were  swept  into 
the  night,  the  wind  rose  in  the  dark  wood,  the  winter's  moon  crept 
pale  and  cold  into  the  sky,  snow  began  to  fall,  at  first  thinly  then 
ma  storm,  hiding  the  moon,  flinging  the  fields  and  roads  into  a 
white  shining  splendour;  the  wind  died  and  the  stars  peeped  be- 
tween the  flakes  of  whirling  snow. 

She  sat  without  moving,  accusing  her  heart  of  hardness,  of  un- 
kindness.  She  seemed  to  herself  then  deserving  of  every  punish- 
ment. Jf  I  had  only  gone  to  him,"  she  thought  again  and  again. 
{She  remembered  how  she  had  i:ept  apart  from  him,  enclosed  her- 
self in  a  reserve  that  he  should  never  break.  She  remembered  the 
times  when  he  had  bcolded  her,  coldly,  bitterly,  and  she  had  stood, 
her  face  as  a  rock,  her  heart  beating  but  her  body  without  move- 
ment, then  had  turned  and  gone  silently  from  the  room.  All  her 
wicked,  cold  heart  that  in  some  strange  way  cared  for  love  but 
could  not  make  those  movements  towards  others  that  would  show 
that  It  cared.  What  was  it  in  herS  Would  she  always,  through 
Ule,  miss  the  things  for  which  she  longed  through  her  coldness 
and  obstinacy? 

She  took  her  father's  photograph,  stared  at  it,  gazed  into  it 
held  It  in  an  agony  of  remorse.  She  shivered  in  the  cold  of  her 
room  but  did  not  know  it.  Her  candle,  caught  in  some  draught, 
blew  out,  and  instantly  the  white  world  without  leapt  in  upon  her 
and  her  room  was  lit  with  a  strange  unearthly  glow.  She  saw 
nothing  but  her  father.  At  last  she  fell  asleep  in  the  chair,  clutch- 
ing in  her  hand  the  photograph. 

Thus  her  aunt  found  her,  later  in  the  evening.  She  was  touched 
by  the  figure,  the  shabby  black  frock,  the  white  tired  face.  She 
had  been  honestly  disappointed  in  her  niece,  disappointed  in  her 
plainness,  m  her  apparent  want  of  heart,  in  her  silence  and  morose- 
ness  Mathew  had  told  her  of  the  girl's  outburst  to  him  against 
her  father,  and  this  had  seemed  to  her  shocking  upon  the  very  day 
after  that  father's  death.  Now  when  she  saw  the  photograph 
clenched  m  Maggie's  hand  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  She  said, 
Maggie!  dear  Maggie! "  and  woke  her.  Maggie,  stirring  saw  her 
aunts  slender  figure  and  delicate  face  standing  in  the  snowlight 
as  though  she  had  been  truly  a  saint  from  heaven. 

Maggie's  first  impulse  was  to  rise  up,  fling  her  arms  around 
her  aunt  s  neck  and  hug  her.  Had  she  done  that  the  historv  of 
Her  life  might  have  been  changed.    Her  natural  shyness  checked 


AUNT  ANNE 


39 


hep  impulse.    She  got  up,  the  photograph  dropped  from  her  hand, 
she  smiled  a  little  and  then  said  awkwardly,  "  I've  been  aslee;). 
Do  you  want  me  J    I'll  come  down." 
Her  aunt  drew  her  towards  her. 

"  Maggie,  dear,"  she  said,  "  don't  feel  lonely  any  more.  Think 
of  mo  and  your  Aunt  Elizabeth  as  your  friends  who  will  always 
care  for  you.    You  must  never  be  lonely  again." 

JIaggie's  whole  heart  responded.    She  felt  its  wild  beating  but 
she  could  do  nothing,  could  say  nothing.     Her  body  stiffened.     In 
spite  of  herself  she  withdrew  herself.     Her  face  reddened,  then 
was  pale. 
"  Thank  you,  aunt,"  was  all  she  could  say. 
Her  aunt  moved  away.    H'lently  they  went  downstairs  together. 
At  about  ten  the  next  mornii.;^  they  were  seated  in  the  dining- 
room — Aunt  Anne,  Uncle  Mathew,  Maggie,  and  Mr.  Brassy.    Mr. 
Brassy  was  speaking: 

"  I'm  afraid.  Miss  Cardinal,  that  there  can  be  no  question  about 
the  legality  of  this.  It  has  been  duly  witnessed  and  signed.  I 
regret  extremely  ...  but  as  you  can  well  understand,  I  was 
quite  unable  to  prevent.  With  the  exception  of  a  legacy  of  £300 
to  Jliss  Maggie  Cardinal  everything  goes  to  Miss  Ellen  Harmer, 
'  To  whom  I  owe  more  than  I  can  ever  possibly — ' " 

"  Thank  you,"  interrupted  Aunt  Anne.    "  This  is,  I  think,  the 
woman  who  has  been  cook  here  during  the  last  four  years  ? " 
"  About  five,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Brassy  softly. 
Uncle  Mathew  was  upon  his  feet,  trembling. 
"  This  is  monstrous,"  he  stuttered,  "  absolutely  monstrous.    Of 
course    an    appeal    will    be    made — undue    influence — the    most 
abominable  thing." 

Maggie  watched  them  all  as  though  the  whole  business  were 
far  from  herself.  She  sat  there,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap, 
looking  at  the  mantelpiece  with  the  ugly  marble  clock,  the  letter 
clip  with  old  soiled  letters  in  it,  the  fat  green  v.  se  with  dusty 
everlastings.  Just  as  on  the  night  when  her  uncle  had  come  into 
her  room  she  had  fancied  that  some  one  spoke  to  her,  so  now  she 
seemed  to  hear: 
"  Ah,  that's  a  nasty  knock  for  you — a  very  nasty  knock." 
Her  father  had  left  all  his  money,  with  the  exception  of  £300, 
to  Ellen  the  cook ;  Maggie  did  not,  for  a  moment,  speculate  as  to 
the  probable  total  amount.  Three  hundred  pounds  seemed  to 
her  a  very  large  sum — it  would  at  any  rate  give  her  something  to 
begin  life  upon— but  the  thing  that  seized  and  held  her  was  the 
secret  friendship  that  must  have  existed  between  her  father  and 


40 


THE  CAPTIVES 


1 


a  flat  „o«  upon  ^:u7j"'^  ^^.i"^,  7.f '■"'*  '^^  «»5 
wheezinga  and  the  D«ntina.  .^7.1  •  '  ,?'•  ''""■'  ■>«'''■  the 
back.  And  .he  7.w  her  f.tL^fi  r'''!l'  "'.','''  ""  «™«'  ""oad 
she  used  to  know  wifh  th,  i-  m  '  t'  ""  ""'  '''"y  "na"  "horn 
the  Wninreyl^The  uafAen  r^.*'°"^^^  ""  «°''<^  ''"«'. 
cuff,-then  «  that  veiW  .hail  M^t. if  "".""L-  """  '"'""^  'hirt- 
sheet  above  the  toe.  the  Ic^,  ^i  *^  "'t'^"'  ">«  "''  "^  the 
brushed,  the  closed  yelow  MtbelT^'/^^"'^  """^ 
with  their  gleaming  eyes  I^a  k.';^  .f  f  ""  ^°'f^'^-  the  rat. 
being  led  against  heT^Ilin?ooL V'"*":'"  *?"«''  "''«  ">« 
the  skulls  were  stale  and^  the  .LT-    ,"'"«'""?«  "chamber  where 

-h^  of  those  two-IC't?e%rkld°hrf  tW  ""  *'^  '"*""•• 

JruToSe'af%?:- 1  ""'ii'''  •'-^'  ^"  • 

traced  to  their  ultimate  hiding  nl.JL  ""''*  "o  ^  "id  that  she 
and  the  woman.  b«  "  .om«  ~^  '  .  "'""°°'  °*  ''"  f«">er 

.aw  those  two  figZs' un"^'  ta'^/mt;'  imfJ  Vn^"'^'  '"^ 

anSra'su'ddt  hrattj^;"r"*'  "^«"  ""'  -^^-^^'-^ 
when  her  father  had  X™  Tf  ".""P^'^d  "fi'ation.  moments 
fancied  whispers,  faughterXhind  J'n"'  """"'"'^  "••«"  »•>«  ^ad 
twined  desperately "andrtr.1"""''  '.""'■'^'"8  **«*•  She  en- 
ter eyes.  ^'  "*'"""  »»  ^"^^'^  developed  behind 

Thi  «st  o''f%r'-\''"'"''''  '°™'  ''"'"'y  "Shamed! 
that'un'cl    Ma^'hrwa^'e^.ruTon  "b-'".  ""'^  *"''■    S""  >-- 

«Pense    .   .   .    if  I  may IXiie  you  "^^    "   •„•    »<J  "f  course  the 
andpai™^;X%';^:^/«„»-"-  'h"  "T  ^^^-  '"^  "-  -'  till 

After'a  t;^*  T"""  "'"J'"^  '^'■"'"f  '!"«  ^^ole  affair, 
aunt  was%peTkit  toiler  "  "'^  ^"''^  ''"^  -' '"  ^^  --•    Her 
"Maggie,  dear-rm  so  very  Bor,y-.o  very  sorry.     But  yon 


AUNT  ANNE 


41 


^  W.U,  a  .uc  !en  impul«  rfH,  nro«,  .lmo.t  bru^n,  her  .unt 
"Ah!  that's  not  it— that's  not  it  I"  ahe  pripH     T^.„   

Maggie  left  the  house, 
and  protection  against  an  outside  power.     MatheTcardTnarfplt 

Hfhrh;t^:'^;^----^-^i^ 

SThrlf    '''  °""?;  "'ir""'  "Charity  towards^h  m  Vut  not 
He.L  rit'-p  ht.tMr:as  ?i".:  Lt  a^U  ^  ^^e'^h^ 

.^.trLeV^t-r-^^^^^^^ 

enough,  but  never  a  thing  like  that "  "  ''"^ 

His  sister  said  quietly: 

MU'""'--"'"^-     "•  «■  J"  Mll™,.     K«,l,.  ,>„, 

'It 8  good  of  you,  Anne-to  take  her."  ^ 

abe  withdrew  her  hand— very  gently 

ti^^  iM^n^er^^Lf"^-    ^"^  """'  "^  ^'"'  "  *-"« 

ashLZ\r?^/ersity^'  "^"  ^''^  "'"^"^  ^-""«  -^^^'^ 
.^^YV^T^"^^  *'■"''"  ^"^  Cardinal  went  on.  "She  didn't 
?^  f  -ri^^'"-"!  ""^'""»-  She  hasn't.  I  think,  much  hia^ 
I  m  afraid  she  may  find  it  a  little  difficult  w  th  us—-'" 


42 


THE  CAPTIVES 


M«thew  was  uncomfortable  now.  His  mood  had  changed;  he 
waa  aullen.  Hi«  siater  always  made  him  feel  like  a  diagraced  dog. 
He  ahuffled  on  bia  feet. 

"  She's  a  good  girl,"  he  muttered  at  last,  and  then  with  a  con- 
fused look  about  him,  as  though  he  were  searching  for  something, 
he  stumbled  out  of  the  room. 

Meanwhile  Maggie  went  on  her  way.  She  chose  instinctively 
her  path,  through  the  kitchen  garden  at  the  bock  of  the  village, 
down  the  hill  by  the  village  street,  over  the  little  bridge  that 
crossed  the  rocky  stream  of  the  Dreot,  and  up  the  steep  hill  that 
led  on  to  the  outskirts  of  Rothin  Moor.  The  day,  although  she 
had  no  eyes  for  it,  was  one  of  those  sudden  impulses  of  misty 
warmth  that  surprise  the  Glebeshire  frosts.  The  long  stretch  of 
the  moor  was  enwrapped  by  a  thin  silver  network  of  haze;  tho 
warmth  of  the  sun,  seen  so  dimly  that  it  was  like  a  shadow  re- 
flected in  a  mirror,  struck  to  the  very  heart  of  the  soil.  Where 
but  .yesterday  there  had  been  iron  frost  there  was  now  soft  yielding 
earth;  it  was  as  though  the  heat  of  the  central  fires  of  the  world 
pressed  dimly  upward  through  mony  miles  of  heavy  weighted  re- 
sistance, straining  to  tho  light  and  air.  Larks,  lost  in  golden  mist 
circled  in  space;  Ma,_<;ie  could  feel  upon  he  j'.ice  and  neck  and 
hands  the  warm  moisture;  the  soil  under  ue.  (vt,  now  haid,  now 
soft,  seemca  to  tremble  with  some  happy  anticipation;  the  moor, 
wrapped  in  its  misty  colour,  had  no  bounds;  the  world  was  limit- 
less space  with  hidden  streams,  hidden  suns. 

The  raoor  had  a  pathetic  attraction  for  her,  because  not  very  long 
ago  a  man  and  a  woman  had  been  lost,  only  a  few  steps  from 
Borhedden  Farm,  in  the  mist— lost  their  way  and  been  frozen 
during  the  night.    Poor  things!  lovers,  perhaps,  they  had  been. 

Maggie  felt  that  here  she  could  walk  for  miles  and  miles  and 
that  there  was  nothing  to  stop  her;  the  clang  of  a  gate,  a  house, 
a  wall,  a  human  voice  was  intolerable  to  her. 

Her  first  thought  as  she  went  forward  was  disgust  at  her  own 
weakness;  once  again  she  had  been  betraye  ]  by  her  feelings.  She 
could  remember  no  single  time  when  they  had  not  betrayed  her. 
She  recalled  now  with  an  intolerable  self-contempt  her  thoughts 
of  her  father  at  the  time  of  the  funeral  and  the  hours  that  fol- 
lowed. It  seemed  to  her  now  that  she  had  only  softened  towards 
his  memory  because  she  had  believed  that  he  had  left  her  money 
—and  now,  when  she  saw  that  he  had  treated  her  contemptuously, 
she  found  him  once  again  the  cruel,  mean  figure  that  she  had 
before  thought  him. 
For  that  she  most  bitterly,  with  an  intensity  that  only  her  loneli- 


AUNT  A^fNE 


43 


new  could  have  given  her,  deipiscil  henelf.  And  yet  louethitiK 
olie  ill  her  knew  that  that  reproach  waa  not  a  true  one.  She  had 
really  softened  towards  him  only  bccauHc  the  had  felt  that  she  had 
behaved  badly  towards  him.  and  the  discovery  now  that  bo  hod 
behaved  badly  towards  her  did  not  alter  hor  own  original  behaviour. 
She  did  not  analyse  all  thiaj  she  only  knew  that  there  were  in  her 
longings  for  aflfection,  a  desire  to  be  loved,  an  aching  for  com- 
panionship, and  that  these  things  must  always  be  kept  down,  fust 
hidden  within  her.  She  renlised  her  loneliness  now  with  a  fierce, 
proud,  a'most  exultant  independence.  No  more  tears,  no  more 
leaning  upon  others,  no  more  expecting  anything  from  anybody. 
She  was  not  ilrainatic  in  her  new  independence;  she  did  not  cry 
defiance  to  the  golden  mist  or  the  larks  or  the  hidden  sun;  she 
only  walked  on  and  on.  stumping  forward  in  her  clumsy  boots, 
her  eyes  hard  and  unseeing,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her 
back. 

Her  expectation  of  happiness  in  her  opening  life  that  had  been 
so  strong  with  her  that  other  day  when  she  had  looked  down  upon 
Polchester  was  gone.  Slio  expected  nothing,  she  wanted  nothing. 
Her  only  thought  was  that  she  would  never  yield  to  any  one,  never 
care  for  any  one,  never  give  to  any  one  the  opportunity  of  touch- 
ing her.  At  moments  through  the  mist  came  the  figure  of  the  cook, 
stout,  florid,  triumphant.  Maggie  regarded  her  contemptuously. 
"You  camot  touch  me,"  she  thought.  Of  her  father  she  would 
never  think  again.  With  both  hands  she  flung  all  her  memories 
of  him  into  the  mist  to  be  lost  for  ever.    .   .    . 

She  came  suddenly  upon  a  lonely  farm-house.  She  knew  the 
place,  Borhedden ;  it  had  often  been  a  favourite  walk  of  hers  from 
the  Vicarage  to  Borhedden.  The  farmer  let  rooms  there  and,  be- 
cause the  house  was  very  old,  some  of  the  rooms  were  fine,  with 
high  ceiling."!,  thick  stone  walls,  and  even  some  good  panelling. 
The  view  too  was  superb,  ocross  to  the  Broads  and  the  Molecatcher, 
or  back  to  the  Dreot  Woods,  or  to  the  dim  towers  of  Polchester 
Cathedral.  The  air  here  was  fine — one  of  the  healthiest  spots  in 
Qlebeshire. 

The  farm  to-day  was  transfigured  by  the  misty  glow;  cows  and 
horses  could  be  faintly  seen,  ricks  burnt  with  a  dim  fire.  Some- 
where dripping  water  falling  on  to  stono  gave  a  vocal  spirit  to  the 
obscurity.  The  warm  air  seemed  to  radiate  about  the  house  like  a 
flame  that  is  obscured  by  sunlight. 

The  stealthy  movements  of  the  animals,  the  dripping  of  the 
water,  were  the  only  sounds.  To  Maggie  the  house  seemed  to 
say  something,  something  comfortioi-  and  reassuring. 


t 


44 


THE  CAPTIVES 


ner  eyc«  grave,  her  heart  controlled.  ■"""i"  «;i, 

A.  ihe  walked  back  the  aun  broke  through  the  mitt   »n,l   t„™ 

in?-4':.:.7lTkf  "'^'^^- '""'  •  -o-  - «- itT'131  'biT 

It  wai  natural  that  her  aunt  .hould  «i«h  to  return  to  Lon.lnn 

iittle  last  conversation  with  Maggie 
i;  I  hope  you'll  be  happy  in  London,"  he  said. 
I  nope  so,"  said  Maggie. 

h„  "J.n^"'"'  '"'"'"  ''°  ''''^'  y"""  '»"  '0  ''e'P  youf  aunts."     Then 
he  went  on  more  nervously.    "Think  of  me  sometimes     I  shan'^ 

I  shall  like  to  know  that  you're  thinking  about  me" 

Maggies  new-found  resol-.tion  taken  so  defiantly  upon  the  moor 
was  suddenly  severely  tested.  ?he  felt  as  though  her  uncle  were 
leav  ng  her  to  a  world  of  enemies.  She  drove  down  her  ^nslof 
desolation   and  he  saw  nothing  but  her  quiet  composure 

come  often!^  "'  ""'''  ''"'  '""''"''■    " ^"-^  ^^  "-' 

AunI  Annt°mlh'?'K"'''  ""^  '.°''^'  l'^^'"^  ^''  ^'"^  ""'"^s  where 
Aunt  Anne  might  be  supposed  to  be  waiting.    "  It's  not  mv  fault 

sTe t,:;!'";'  '""'  ^r  '"""  '*"»•    Ifs^religion  of  course  . 
She  suddenly  seemed  to  see  in  his  eyes  some  terror  or  despair 

im  h!Lr      T  J°"  '■"'    ^'^^  ™y  t""^  hundred  pounda  if  it 
win  help  you.    I  don't  want  it  just  now.    Keep  it  for  me" 
He  had  a  moment  of  resolute,  clear-sighted  honesty.    "  No   my 


AUNT  ANNE  4g 

dear,  if  I  hid  It  It  would  go  in  a  week.  I  can't  keep  moncj; 
I  never  pouM.  I'm  really  better  without  any  I'm  all  right. 
YouMI  ut..  r  gi't  rid  of  me— don't  you  fear.  We're  got  more  in 
common  thnn  you  think,  although  you're  a  good  girl  and  I'n 
gone  to  pifOTs  a  bit.  All  the  lamo  Iherc'i  plenty  worse  than  me. 
Your  aunt,  for  all  her  religion,  ia  damned  difficult  for  a  plain 
nun  to  get  along  with.  Moat  people  would  find  me  better  company, 
after  all.     One  last  word,  Maggie." 

He  bent  down  and  nhispi'rod  to  her.  "  Don't  you  go  getting 
caught  by  that  sweep  who  runs  tiieir  chapel  up  in  London.  //«'« 
a  humbug  if  ever  there  was  one— you  mark  my  words.  1  know  a 
thing  or  two.  He's  done  your  aunts  a  lot  of  harm,  and  he'll  have 
his  dirty  fingers  on  you  if  you  let  him." 

So  he  departed,  his  last  kiss  mingled  with  the  usual  aroma  of 
whisky  and  tobacco,  bis  last  attitude,  aa  he  turned  away,  that 
strange  confusion  of  assumed  dignity  and  natural  genial  stu- 
pidity that  was  so  especially  his. 

Maggie  turned,  with  all  her  now  defiant  resolution,  to  face  tho 
world  alono  with  her  Aunt  Anne.  Throughout  the  next  day  she 
was  busied  with  collecting  her  few  possessions,  with  her  farewells 
to  the  one  or  two  people  in  the  village  who  had  been  kind  to  her, 
and  with  little  sudden,  almost  surreptitious  visits  to  corners  of  tho 
house,  the  garden,  the  wood  where  she  had  at  one  time  or  another 
been  happy. 

As  the  evening  fell  and  a  sudden  storm  of  rain  leapt  up  from 
beneath  the  hill  and  danced  about  the  house,  she  had  a  wild  long- 
ing to  stay— to  stay  at  any  cost  and  in  any  discomfort.  London 
had  no  longer  interest,  but  '-'-■  •error  and  dismay.  She  ran  out 
into  the  dark  and  rsi.     .    •< .  -den,  felt  her  way  to  an  old 

and  battered  seat  that  u  -:  ■  t  days  dolls'  tea-parties  and 
the  ravages  of  bad-temiii,  s'.orcii  Irom  it  across  the  kitchen- 
garden  to  the  lights  of  tho  village,  that  seemed  to  rock  and  shiver 
in  the  wind  and  rain. 

She  stared  passionately  at  the  lights,  her  heart  beating  as  though 
it  would  suffocate  her.  At  last,  her  clothes  si.uked  with  the  storm, 
her  hair  dripping,  she  returned  to  the  house.  Her  aunt  was  in  the 
hall. 

"  Sfy  dear  Maggie,  where  have  you  beeni "  in  a  voice  that  was 
kind  but  aghast. 

"  In  the  garden,"  said  Maggie,  hating  her  aunt. 

"But  it's  pouring  with  rain!  You're  soaking!  You  must 
change  at  once  I    Did  you  go  out  to  find  something?" 

Maggie  made  no  answer.    She  stood  there,  her  face  sulky  ind 


46 


THE  CAPTIVES 


closed,  the  water  drippng  from  her.    Afterwards,  as  she  changed 
her  clothes,  she  reflected  that  there  had  been  many  occasions  during 
these  three  days  when  her  aunt  would  have  felt  irritation  with  her 
had  she  known  her  longer.    She  had  always  realised  that  she  was 
careless,  that  when  she  should  be  thinking  of  one  thing  she  thought 
of  another,  that  her  housekeeping  and  management  of  shops  and 
servants  had  been  irregular  and  undisciplined,  but  until  now  she 
had  noi  sharply  surveyed  her  weaknesses.     Since  the  coming  of 
her  aunt  she  had  been  involved  in  a  perfect  network  of  little 
blunders;  she  had  gone  out  of  the  room  without  shutting  the  door, 
had  started  into  the  village  on  an  errand,  and  then,  when  she  was 
there,  had  forgotten  what  it  was;  there  had  been  holes  in  her 
stockings  and  rents  in  her  blouses.    After  Ellen's  departure  she 
had  endeavoured  to  help  in  the  kitchen,  but  had  made  so  many 
mistakes  that  Aunt  Anne  and  the  kitchen-maid  had  been  compelled 
to  banish  her.    She  now  wondered  how  during  so  many  years  she 
had  run  the  house  at  all,  but  then  her  father  had  cared  about 
nothing  so  that  money  was  not  wasted.     She  knew  that  Aunt 
Anne  excused  her  mistakes  just  now  because  of  the  shock  of  her 
fathers  death  and  the  events  that  followed  it,  but  Maggie  knew 
also  that  these  faults  were  deep  in  her  character.     She  could 
ratplain  it  quite  simply  to  herself  by  saying  that  behind  the  things 
that  she  saw  there  was  always  something  that  she  did  not  see, 
something  of  the  greatest  importance  and  just  beyond  her  vision;' 
in  her  efforts  to  catch  this  farther  thing  she  forgot  what  was  Im- 
mediately in  front  of  her.    It  had  always  been  so.    Since  a  tiny 
child  she  had  always  supposed  that  the  shapes  and  forms  with 
which  she  was  presented  were  only  masks  to  hide  the  real  thing 
Such  a  view  might  lend  interest  to  life,  but  it  certainly  made  one 
careless;  and  although  Uncle  Mathew  might  understand  it  and 
put  It  down  to  the  Cardinal  imagination,  she  instinctively  knew 
that  Aunt  Anne,  unless  Maggie  definitely  attributed  it  to  religion 
would  be  dismayed  and  even,  if  it  persisted,  angered.    Maggie  had 
not,  after  all,  the  excuse  and  defence  of  being  a  dreamy  child. 
With  her  square  body  and  plain  face,  her  clear,  unspeculative  eyes, 
her  stolid  movements,  she  could  have  no  claim  to  dreams.    With 
a  sudden  desolate  pang  Maggie  suspected  ttat  Uncle  Mathew  was 
the  only  person  who  would  ever  understand  her.    Well,  then   she 
must  train  herself.  ' 

She  would  close  doors,  turn  out  lights,  put  things  back  where 
she  found  them,  mend  her  clothes,  keep  accounts.  Indeed  a  new 
life  was  beginning  for  her.  She  felt,  with  a  sudden  return  to  the 
days  before  her  walk  on  the  moor,  that  if  only  her  aunts  would 


AUNT  ANNE 


47 


love  her  she  would  improve  much  more  rapidly.  And  then  with 
her  new  independence  she  auured  herself  that  if  they  did  not  love 
her  she  most  certainly  would  not  love  them.    .  .  . 

That  night  she  sat  opposite  her  aunt  beside  the  fire.  The  house 
lay  dead  and  empty  behind  them.  Aunt  Anne  was  so  neat  in  her 
thin  black  silk,  her  black  shining  hair,  her  pale  pointed  face,  a 
little  round  white  locket  rising  and  falling  ever  so  slowly  with  the 
lift  of  her  breast.  There  were  white  frills  to  her  sleeves,  and  she 
read  a  slim  book  bound  in  purple  leather.  Her  body  never 
moved;  only  once  and  again  her  thin,  delicate  hand  ever  so  gently 
lifted,  turned  a  page,  then  settled  down  on  to  her  lap  once  more. 
She  never  raised  her  eyes. 

The  fire  was  heavy  and  sullen;  the  wind  howled;  that  old  familiar 
beating  of  the  twigs  upon  the  pane  seemed  to  reiterate  to  Maggie 
that  this  was  her  last  evening.  She  pretended  to  read.  She  had 
found  a  heavy  gilt  volume  of  Paradite  Lost  with  Dora's  pictures. 
She  read  these  words : 

Beyond  this  flood  a  frozen  Continent 
Lies  dark  and  wilde,  beat  with  perpetual  storms 
Of  whirlwind  and  dire  hail;  which  on  firm  lend 
Thaws  not,  but  gathers  heap,  and  ruin  seems 
Of  ancient  pile;  all  else  deep  snow  and  ice, 
A  gulf  profound  as  that  Serbonian  bay 

Betwixt  Damiata  and  Mount  Casius  old, 
Where  armies  whole  have  sunk ;  the  parching  Air 
Bums  froze,  and  cold  performs  the  effect  of  Fire. 

Further  again,  words  caught  her  eye. 
Thus  roving  on 
In  confused  march  forlorn,  th'  adventurous  Bands 
With  shuddering  horror  pale,  and  eyes  aghast 
Viewed  first  their  lamentable  lot,  and  found 
'No  rest ;  through  many  a  dark  and  drearie  Vaile 
They  passed,  and  many  a  Begion  dolorous. 
O'er  many  a  frozen,  many  a  fiery  Alpe, 
Rocks,  Caves,  Lakes,  Fens,  Bogs,  Dens  and  shades  of  death, 
A  Universe  of  death,  which  God  by  curse 
Created  evil,  for  evil  only  good 
Where  all  life  dies,  death  lives,  and  nature  breaks 
Perverse,  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things. 
Abominable,  inutterable,  and  worse 
Than  Fables  yet  have  feigned,  or  fear  conceived, 
Qorgons,  and  Hydras,  and  Chimeras  dire. 


f,  't 

rt 


11 


M 


48 


THE  CAPTIVES 


for  Sit™  K  h  "  1?  ?*»'^"'«' »<»t  especially  .he  did  not  care 
for  poetry,  but  o-night  she  saw  the  picture.  Up  to  the  very  bounds 
of  the  house  this  waste  country,  filled  with  beasts  of  prey,  animal, 
Witt,  fiery  eyes  and  incredible  nanjes,  the  long  stretch  of  snow 
and  ice,  the  black  water  with  no  stars  reflected  in  it,  the  wind 
A  coal  crashed  in  the  fii-e;  she  gave  a  little  cry 

,1,1^^  fT'  "!;"*,!■'  '""  »«'d  A""*  Anne.    Then,  with  a  little 
shake  of  her  shoulders,  she  added:  "There's  a  horrid  draught 

m^edZ  ""^'  '°  '""^  kitchen-door  when  you  came  away, 

oJ^^t"'!*,?^'  ^^  T''*  '•■*  ^^^  forgotten.    She  left  the  room, 
cro^  tie  hall.    Yes,  there  was  the  door,  wide  open.    She  locked 

endJ^  W  W:?n:Lfhoir  '°  """""'"  '"^  "'^  "''»"^-    ^ 


CHAPTER  ni 


THE  LONDON  ROUSE 

IT  waa  strange  after  this  that  the  start  on  the  London  journey 
should  be  so  curiously  unexciting;  it  was  perhaps  the  presence 
of  Aunt  Anne  that  reduced  everything  to  an  unemotional  level. 
Mageie  wondered  as  she  sat  in  the  old  moth-eaten,  whisky-smelling 
cab  whether  her  Aunt  Anne  was  ever  moved  about  anything.  Then 
something  occurred  that  showed  her  that,  as  yet,  she  knew  very 
little  about  her  aunt.  As,  clamping  down  the  stony  hill,  they  had 
a  last  glimpse  at  the  comer  of  the  two  Vicarage  chimneys,  look- 
ing above  the  high  hedge  like  a  pair  of  inquisitive  lunatics, 
Haggle  choked.  She  pressed  her  hands  together,  pushed  her 
hair  from  her  face  and,  in  so  doing,  touched  her  black 
hat. 

"  Your  hat's  crooked,  Maggie  dear,"  said  her  aunt  gently.  The 
girl's  hot  hands  clutched  the  soft  packet  of  sandwiches  and  a  little 
black  handbag  that  yesterday  Aunt  Anne  had  bought  for  her  in 
the  village.  It  was  a  shabby  little  bag,  and  bad  strange  habits  of 
opening  when  it  was  not  expected  to  do  so  and  remaining  shut 
when  something  was  needed  from  it.  It  gaped  now  and,  just  as 
the  cab  climbed  Cator  Hill,  it  fell  forward  and  flung  the  contents 
on  to  the  floor.  Maggie,  blushing,  looked  up  expecting  a  reproof. 
She  saw  that  her  aunt's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  view;  as  upon 
the  day  of  her  arrival,  so  now.  Her  face  wore  a  look  of  rapture. 
She  drank  it  in. 

Maggie  also  took  the  lest  joy  of  the  familiar  scene.  The 
Vicarage,  like  a  grey  crouching  cat,  lay  basking  on  the  green 
hill.  The  sunlight  flooded  the  dark  wood;  galleons  of  clouds  rolled 
like  lumbering  vessels  across  the  blue  sky. 

"It's  lovely,  isn't  it?"  whispered  langgie. 

"  Beautiful — beautiful,"  sighed  her  aunt 

"  I've  always  loved  just  this  view.  I've  often  walked  here  just 
to  see  it,"  Maggie  said. 

Aunt  Anne  sat  back  in  her  seat. 

"It's  been  hard  for  me  always  to  live  in  London.  I  love  the 
country  so." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Maggie,  passionately. 
49 


(    ll 


I    t 


In 


so 


THE  CAPTIVES 


^^For  a  moment  they  were  together,  caught  up  hy  the  same 

Then  Aunt  Anne  aaid: 

"Why,  your  bag,  dear  I    The  thing,  are  all  about  the  place." 
Maggie  bent  down.    When  she  looked  up  again  they  had  dipped 
down  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill. 

Maggie  had  only  once  in  all  her  life  been  in  a  train,  but  on  this 
present  occasion  she  did  not  find  it  very  thrilling.  It  was  rather 
like  being  in  anything  else,  and  her  imagination  exercised  itself 
upon  the  people  in  the  carriage  rather  than  the  scenery  outside 
bhe  was  at  first  extremely  self-conscious  and  fancied  that  everf 
one  whispered  about  her.  Then,  lulled  by  the  motion  of  the  train 
and  the  warmth,  she  slept;  she  was  more  deeply  exhausted  by  the 
events  of  the  last  week  than  she  knew,  and  throughout  the  day 
Bbe  slumbered,  woke,  and  slumbered  again. 

Quite  suddenly  she  awoke  with  a  definite  shock  to  a  new  world 
Evening  had  come;  there  were  lights  that  rushed  up  to  the  train 
stared  in  at  the  window,  a..<l  rushed  away  igain.  On  every  side 
Uiings  seemed  to  change  pla<  -^  in  a  general  post,  trees  and  houses, 
hedges  and  roads,  all  lit  by  an  evening  moon  and  wrapt  in  a  white 
and  wavering  mist  Then  the  town  was  upon  them,  quite  in- 
Btantly;  streets  ran  like  ribbons  into  grey  folds  of  buildings-  rows 
of  lamps,  scattered  at  first,  drew  into  a  single  point  of  dancing 
flame;  towers  and  chimneys  seemed  to  jump  from  place  to  place 
as  though  they  were  trying  to  keep  in  time  with  the  train-  a  beU 
rang  monotonously;  wreaths  of  smoke  rose  lazily  against  the  stars 
and  fell  again. 

When  at  last  she  found  herself,  a  tiny  figure,  standing  upon 
the  vast  platform  under  the  high  black  dome,  the  noise  and  con- 
fusion excited  and  delighted  her.  She  rose  to  the  waves  of  sound 
as  a  swimmer  nses  in  the  sea,  her  heart  beat  fast,  and  she  was  so 
eagerly  engaged  in  looking  about  her,  in  staring  at  the  hurrying 
people  m  locating  the  shrill  screams  of  the  engines,  in  determin- 
ing not  to  jump  when  the  carriages  jolted  together,  that  her  little 
black  bag  opened  unexpectedly  once  more  and  spilled  a  handker- 
chief, a  hand-mirror,  a  paper  packet  of  sweets,  a  small  pair  of 
scissors,  and  a  shabby  brown  purse  upon  the  station-floor.  She 
was  greatly  confused  when  an  old  gentleman  helped  her  to  pick 
them  up.    The  little  mirror  was  broken. 

"Oh  I  it's  bad  luck  I"  she  cried,  staring  distressfully  at  the  old 
man.  He  smiled,  and  would  have  certainly  been  very  agreeable 
to  her  had  not  Aunt  Anne,  who  had  been  finding  their  boxes  and 
securing  a  cab,  arrived  and  taken  Maggie  away. 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE 


61 


^You  shouldn't  speak  to  strange  gentlemen,  dear,"  said  Aunt 

C.^'^Lwfi*  i'^  ft  '"te"-     It  was  characteristic   of  Anne 
Cardinal    hat  she  should  secure  the  only  four-wheeler   in  X 

Had  Ma^-f  "^  *'l''  *"""'t''  "^'^  ""■'^'^  '»  «•"'  f«  her  pi  asure 
Had  Maggie  only  known,  he.  aunt's  choice  was  eloquent  of  their 
future  hfe  together.  But  Maggie  did  not  know  and'did  not  lar^ 
Her  e«.ten.ent  was  intense.  That  old  St.  Dreot  life  had  alr^"y 
T""  ""kST  ^''H  H'  ^^o*  "  ""^  >"'«  »  fontastic  dream  as 
^mJ^""!;,  "^  "^r"^  ^,  '*r'''  *'"'  "'«'•  th«  »»-"».  the  "ghts 
Jh^v  t„r  1?^  '^^"^?.,  f"  »>"■  She  could  not  believe  fhat 
they  had  all  been,  just  like  this,  before  her  arrival.     As  with 

rTnv'"f/n"f  ^'y  •T«^=''"«  ^'  ""^"W  '•^hind  this  dispUy 
the  mvisible  Circle  inside  the  circle  that  she  saw. 

seemed  toT,!^"  *•"  ^'TI^  "'"'  *^  "'"^*'  ^^  »""-»  P«»Pl«* 

fnTi;    Sll'^^'t  "8  though  there  would  suddenly  come  a  great  hole 

noise  sTefn  f  ^  '"^*  '"'"  "'"'''  '•«'  ■='"''  ''""■'I  t""^"-  The 
the  h-S,ri  1  «  "/"'"'^  'T  deafening,  and  when,  suddenly. 
i;«;^.fi  i^"T  "^  '""^  advertisement  flashed  out  gigantic 
agamst  the  sky,  she  gave  a  little  scream.    She  puzzled  herTunt  by 

"But  it  isn't  really  like  this,  is  it?" 

To  which  Aunt  Anne  could  only  say: 

'IJou're  hungry  and  tired,  dear,  I  expect." 
aZitJ^M^^l  outrending  scream  the  whole  world  seemed  to 
!iK^.l  ^  hT.^°T-  "P^"  ''^<^«"^  Aunt  Anne  thought  the 

cab«hadasmell."    ''Oosh-OOSH."    "COSH.".   .   .    Magrie 

T.Z'J       '•'!*?•«"«»''"»  •nd  "onical  gift  of  contrast  that  is 
London  s  secret,  they  were  suddenly  driven  into  the  sleepiest  qiief 

and  muffled  echoes.    The  cab's  wheels  made  a  riotous  clatter 

strlt^'ThT.*;"*  'J'""  '°  t  "i."'":':"*  ""'  ">*  °"'y  fisnire  in  the 
1!»1!  K  ,1  ■  ='«"  *»°f  overhead  with  wonderful  brilliance,  and  a 

inHMi""'^l'^i.^u'''J^'°'"  »*  '"'"'J-     A"  «''«  •«»'^«  were  taU 

and  secret,  with  high  white  steps  and  flat  faces.     A  cat  slipped 

across  the  street;  another  swiftly  followed  it 
St.  Dreot's  seemed  near  at  hand  again  and  Ellen  the  cook  not 
«  wi.  T'^'    ""**;*  ^*'*  *  ^"^^^^  fo'lomness  and  desolation. 

t    •A,\\r^  ^'"^*  '"^*' "  »''«  whispered,  as  though  she  wera 

afraid  lest  the  street  should  hear. 

They  stopped  before  one  of  the  flat-faced  houses;  Aunt  Ann» 


t  a 


62  THE  CAPTIVES 

Tang  the  bell,  and  an  old  woman  with  a  face  like  a  lemon  helped 
t^8  cabman  with  the  boxes.  Haggle  waa  standing  in  a  hall  that 
(melt  of  damp  and  geraniums.  It  was  intensely  dark,  and  a  shrill 
icream  from  somewhere  did  not  make  things  more  pleasant. 

"  That's  Edward  the  parrot,"  said  Aunt  Anne.  "  Take  care  not 
to  approach  him  too  closely,  dear,  because  he  bites." 

Then  they  went  upstairs,  Maggie  groping  her  way  and  stumbling 
at  the  sharp  corners.  The  darkness  grew;  she  knocked  her  knee 
on  the  corner  of  something,  cried  out,  and  a  suddenly  opened  door 
threw  a  pale  green  light  upon  a  big  picture  of  men  in  armour 
attacking  a  fortified  town  beneath  a  thundery  sky.  This  picture 
wavered  and  faltered,  hung  as  it  was  upon  a  thin  cord  strained  to 
breaking-point.  Maggie  reached  the  security  of  the  room  beyond 
the  passage,  her  shoulders  bent  a  little  as  though  she  expected  to 
hear  at  every  instant  the  crashing  collapse  of  the  armoured  men. 
Her  eyes  unused  to  the  light,  she  stumbled  into  the  room,  fell  into 
some  one's  arms,  felt  that  her  poor  hat  was  crooked  and  her  cheeks 
burning,  and  then  was  rebuked,  as  it  seemed,  by  the  piercing  cry 
of  Edward  the  parrot  from  the  very  bowels  of  the  house. 

She  stammered  something  to  the  man  who  had  held  her  and  then 
let  her  go.  She  was  confused,  hot  and  angry.  "  They'll  think  me 
an  'jiot  who  can't  enter  a  room  properly."  She  glared  about  her 
and  felt  as  though  she  had  been  taken  prisoner  by  some  strange 
people  who  lived  under  the  sea.  She  was  aware,  when  her  eyes 
were  accustomed  to  the  dim  light,  that  the  entrance  of  herself  and 
her  aunt  had  interrupted  the  conversation  of  three  people.  Near 
the  fireplace  sat  a  little  woman  wearing  black  mittens  and  a  white 
lace  cap;  standing  above  her  with  his  arm  on  the  mantelpiece 
was  a  thin,  battered-looking  gentleman  with  large  spectacles,  high, 
gaunt  features  and  a  very  thin  head  of  hair;  near  the  door  was 
the  man  against  whom  Maggie  had  collided.  She  saw  that  he 
was  young,  thick-set  and  restless.  She  noticed  even  then  his 
eyes,  bright  and  laughing  as  though  he  were  immensely  amused. 
His  mouth  opened  and  closed  again,  his  eyes  were  never  still,  and 
he  ma'!e  fierce  dumb  protests  with  his  body,  jerking  it  forward, 
pull)  ist  it  back,  as  a  rider  strives  to  restrain  an  unruly  horse. 
Maggit  was  able  to  notice  these  things,  because  during  the  first 
moments  her  Aunt  Anne  entirely  held  the  stage.  She  advanced 
to  the  fireplace  with  her  halting  movement,  embraced  the  little 
lady  by  the  fire  with  a  soft  and  unimpassioned  clasp. 

"Well,  Elizabeth,  here  we  are,  you  see,"  turned  to  the  thin 
gentleman  saying,  "Why  you,  Mr.  Magnus!  I  thought  that  yon 
were  still  in  Wiltshire  I"  then  from  the  middle  of  the  room  id- 


h 


i 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE 


68 


dreuioK  the  rtout  young  man:  "I'm  very  glad  to  lee  you.  Mr. 
Warlock." 

Haggle  fancied  that  the  three  penoos  were  nenroua  of  her  aunt; 
the  Btout  young  man  waa  amuaed  perhaps  at  the  general  situa- 
tion, but  Mr.  Magnus  by  the  fireplace  showed  great  emotion,  the 
colour  mounting  into  his  high  bony  cheeks  and  his  nostrils  twitch- 
ing like  a  horse's.  Maggie  had  been  always  very  observant,  and 
she  was  detached  enough  now  to  notice  that  the  drawing-room  was 
filled  with  ugly  and  cumbrous  things  and  yet  seemed  unfurnished. 
Although  everything  was  old  and  had  been  there  obviously  for 
years,  the  place  yet  reminded  one  of  a  bare  chamber  into  which 
furniture  had  just  been  piled  without  order  or  arrangement 
Opposite  the  door  was  a  large  and  very  bad  painting  of  the  two 
sisters  as  young  gins,  sitting,  with  arms  encircled,  in  low  dresses, 
on  the  seashore  before  a  grey  and  angry  sea,  and  Uncle  Mathew  as 
a  small,  shiny-faced  boy  in  tight  short  blue  trousers,  carrying  a 
bucket  and  spade,  and  a  smug,  pious  expression.  The  room  was 
lit  with  gas  that  sizzled  and  hissed  in  a  protesting  undertone; 
there  was  a  big  black  cat  near  the  fire,  and  this  watched  Maggie 
with  green  and  fiery  eyes. 

She  stood  there  by  the  door  tired  and  hungry;  she  felt  un- 
acknowledged and  forgotten. 

"I  know  I  shall  hate  it,"  was  her  thought;  she  was  conscious 
of  her  arms  and  her  legs;  her  ankle  tickled  in  her  shoe,  and  she 
longed  to  scratch  it.    She  sneezed  suddenly,  and  they  all  jumped 
as  though  the  floor  had  opened  beneath  them. 
"And  Maggie?"  said  the  little  lady  by  the  fireplace. 
Maggie  moved  forward  with  the  awkward  gestures  and  the  angry 
look  in  her  eyes  that  were  always  hers  when  she  was  ill  at  ease. 
"  Maggie,"  said  Aunt  Anne,  "  has  been  very  good." 
"  And  she's  tired,  I'm  sure,"  continued  the  little  lady,  who  must 
of  course  be  Aunt  Elizabeth.    "  The  journey  was  easy,  dear.    And 
you  had  no  change.    They  gave  you  footwarmers,  I  hope.    It's  been 
lovely  weather.    I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  dear.    I've  had  no  photo- 
graph of  you  since  you  were  a  baby." 

Aunt  Elizabeth  had  a  way,  Maggie  thought,  of  collecting  a 
number  of  li'tle  .  'onnected  statements  as  though  she  were  work- 
ing out  a  sum  and  hoped— but  was  not  very  certain — ^that  she 
would  achieve  a  successful  answer.  "  Add  two  and  five  and  three 
and  four  .  .  ."  The  statements  that  she  made  were  apparently 
worlds  apart  in  interest  and  importance,  but  she  hoped  with  good 
fortune  to  flash  upon  the  boards  a  fine  result  She  was  nervous, 
Maggie  saw,  and  her  thin  shoulders  were  a  little  bent  as  though 


f   Ii] 


'  K 


64 


THE  CAPTIVES 


•he  expected  some  one  from  behind  to  atrike  her  suddenly  in  the 
•mall  of  the  back. 

"  She's  afraid  of  something,"  thought  Maggie. 
Aunt  Eliiabeth  had  obviously  not  the  strong  character  of  her 
•ister  Anne. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  looking,  for  no  reason  at  all,  at  Mr. 
Magnus,  "I  slept  in  the  train,  so  I'm  not  tired."  She  stopped 
then,  because  there  was  nothing  more  to  say.  She  felt  that  she 
ought  to  kiss  her  aunt;  she  thought  she  saw  :  .  her  aunt's  small 
rather  watery  eyes  an  appeal  that  she  should  do  so.  The  distance, 
however,  seemed  infinite,  and  Maggie  had  a  strange  feeling  that 
her  bending  down  would  break  so-ne  spell,  that  the  picture  in  the 
passage  would  fall  with  a  ghostly  clatter,  that  Edward  the  parrot 
■would  scream  and  shriek,  that  the  gas  would  burst  into  a  bubbling 
horror,  that  the  big  black  cat  would  leap  upon  her  and  tear  her 
with  its  claws. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  afraid,"  she  thought.  And,  as  though  she  were 
defying  the  universe,  she  bent  down  and  kissed  her  aunt.  She 
fancied  that  this  act  of  hers  produced  a  little  sigh  of  relief.  Every 
one  seemed  to  settle  down.  They  all  sat,  and  conversation  was 
general. 

Mr.  Magnus  had  a  rather  melancholy,  deprecating  voice,  but 
with  some  touch  of  irony  too,  as  though  he  were  used  to  being 
called  a  fool  by  his  fellow-beings,  but  after  all  knew  better  than 
they  did.  He  did  not  sound  at  all  conceited;  only  amused  with  a 
little  gentle  melancholy  at  his  own  position. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  so  well.  Miss  Cardinal,"  he  said  with  an 
air  of  rather  oH-fashioned  courtesy.  "I  had  been  afraid  that  it 
might  have  exhausted  you.  I  only  came  to  welcome  you.  I  must 
return  at  once.    I  have  an  article  to  finish  before  midnight." 

Aunt  Anne  smiled  gently:  "No,  I'm  not  tired,  thank  you. 
And  what  has  happened  while  I  have  been  away ! " 

"  I  have  been  away  too,  as  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Magnus,  "  but 
I  understand  that  your  sister  has  been  very  busy — quite  a 
number " 

Aunt  Elizabeth  said  in  her  trembling  voice:  "No.  No— Anne— 
I  assure  you.  Nothing  at  all.  As  you  know,  the  Bible  Committee 
wanted  to  discuss  the  new  scheme.  Last  Tuesday.  Mr.  Warlock, 
Mr.  Simms,  young  Holliday,  Miss  Martin,  Mary  Hearst.  And 
Sophie  Dunn.  And  Mr.  Turner.  Nothing  at  all.  It  was  a  wet 
day.    Last  Tuesday  afternoon." 

"Tour  mother  is  quite  well,  I  hope,  Mr.  Warlock?"  said  Aunt 
Anne,  turning  to  the  young  man. 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE 


W 


"Yet— die's  all  right,"  he  answered.  "Just  the  same.  Amy 
wants  you  to  go  and  see  her.  I  was  to  give  you  the  message,  if 
you  could  manage  to-morrow  sometime;  or  she'd  come  here  if  it's 
more  convenient.  There's  something  important,  she  says,  but  I 
don't  suppose  it's  important  in  the  least.    You  know  what  she  is." 

He  spoke,  laughing.  His  eyes  wandered  all  round  the  room  and 
suddenly  settled  on  Uaggie  with  a  startled  stare,  as  though  she 
were  the  last  person  whom  he  had  expected  to  find  there. 

"Yes.  To-morrow  afternoon,  perhaps — about  three,  if  that 
would  suit  her.    How  is  Amy  ? " 

"Oh,  she's  all  right.  As  eager  to  run  the  world  as  evei^-and 
she  never  will  run  it  so  long  as  she  shows  her  cards  as  obviously 
as  she  does.  I  tell  her  so.  But  it's  no  good.  She  doesn't  listen 
to  me,  you  know." 

Aunt  Anne,  with  the  incomparable  way  that  she  had,  brushed  all 
this  very  gently  aside.    She  simply  said : 

"I'm  glad  that  she's  well."  Then  she  turned  to  the  other 
gentleman : 

"  Your  writing's  quite  satisfactory,  I  hope,  Mr.  Magnus." 

She  spoke  as  though  it  had  been  a  cold  or  a  toothache. 

He  smiled  his  melancholy  ironical  smile.  "I  go  on,  you  know. 
Miss  Cardinal.    After  all,  it's  my  bread  and  butter." 

Maggie,  looking  at  him,  knew  that  this  was  exactly  the  way 
that  he  did  not  regard  it,  and  felt  a  sudden  sympathy  towards  him 
with  his  thin  hair,  his  large  spectacles  and  his  shabby  clothes.  But 
her  look  at  him  was  the  last  thing  of  which  she  was  properly 
conscious.  The  wall  beyond  the  fireplace,  that  bad  seemed  before 
to  her  dim  and  dark,  now  suddenly  appeared  to  lurch  forward,  to 
bulge  before  her  eyes;  the  floor  with  its  old,  rather  shabby  carpet 
rose  on  a  slant  as  though  it  was  rocked  by  an  unsteady  sea ;  worst 
of  all,  the  large  black  cat  swelled  like  a  balloon,  its  whiskers 
distended  like  wire.  She  knew  that  her  eyes  were  burning,  that 
her  forehead  was  cold,  and  that  she  felt  sick.  She  was  hungry, 
and  at  the  same  time  was  conscious  that  she  could  eat  nothing. 
Her  only  wish  was  to  creep  away  and  hide  herself  from  every  one. 

However,  through  all  her  confusion  she  was  aware  of  her  deter- 
mination not  to  betray  to  them  that  she  was  ill.  "If  only  the 
cat  wouldn't  grow  so  fast,  I  believe  I  could  manage,"  was  her 
desperate  thought.  There  was  a  roaring  in  her  ears;  she  caught 
suddenly  from  an  infinite  distance  the  voice  of  the  stout  young 
man—"  She's  ill !    She's  fainting ! " 

She  was  aware  that  she  struggled  to  face  him  with  fierce  pro- 
testing eyes.    The  next  thing  she  knew  was  that  she  lay  for  ihe 


i 


11 


66 


THB  CAPTIVES 


■eeona  tim*  that  iftnnooii  in  hia  umi.  She  felt  tbit  ha  laid 
her,  elumaily  but  gently,  upon  the  lofa ;  iome  one  aprinkled  cold 
water  on  her  forehead.  Deep  down  in  her  aoul  abe  hated  and 
despised  herself  for  this  weaknesa  before  strangera.  She  cloaed 
her  ejres  tightly,  desiring  to  conceal  not  ao  much  the  othera  aa 
herself  from  her  scornful  gaze.  She  heard  aome  one  aay  aomething 
about  a  cup  of  tea,  and  ahe  wanted  it  auddenly  with  a  desperate, 
fiery  desire,  but  ahe  would  not  apeak,  no,  not  if  they  were  to  torture 
her  with  thirst  for  days  and  daya — to  that  extent  at  leaat  ahe  could 
preaerre  her  independence. 

She  heard  her  Aunt  Elizabeth  aay  something  like:  "Poor  thinf 
— atrain — last  week — father — too  much." 

She  gathered  all  her  energies  together  to  say  "  It  hasn't  been  too 
much.  I'm  all  right,"  but  they  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
before  that  she  succumbed.  She  drank  it  with  eager  greed,  then 
lay  back,  her  eyes  closed,  and  slowly  the  bars  of  hot  iron  with- 
drew from  her  forehead.    She  slept. 

•  She  woke  to  a  room  wrapped  in  a  green  trembling  twilight 
She  was  alone  save  for  the  black  cat  The  fire  crackled,  the  gas 
was  turned  low,  and  the  London  murmur  beyond  the  window  was 
like  the  hum  of  an  organ.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room;  she 
felt,  aa  she  lay  there,  an  increasing  irritation  at  her  weakness. 
She  was  afraid  too  for  her  future.  Did  she  faint  like  this  at  the 
earliest  opportunity  people  would  allow  her  no  chance  of  earning 
her  living.  Where  was  that  fine  independent  life  upon  which,  out- 
jide  Borhedden  Farm,  she  had  resolved?  And  these  people,  her 
aunts,  the  young  man,  the  thin  spectacled  man,  what  would  they 
think  of  her?  They  would  name  it  affectation,  perhaps,  and 
imagine  that  she  had  acted  in  such  a  way  that  ahe  might  gain 
their  interest  and  sympathy.  Such  a  thought  sent  the  colour 
flaming  to  her  cheeks;  she  sat  up  on  the  sofa.  She  would  go  to 
them  at  once  and  show  them  that  she  was  perfectly  atrong  and 
well. 

The  door  opened  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  came  in,  very  gently  aa 
though  she  were  going  to  steal  something.  St^  was,  Maggie  saw 
now,  so  little  as  to  be  almost  deformed,  with  at  t  pale  face,  lined 
and  wripkled,  and  blue  watery  eyes.  She  wore  a  black  silk  wrapper 
over  her  shoulders,  and  soft  black  slippers.  Alice  in  Wonderland 
was  one  of  the  few  books  that  Maggie  had  read  in  her  childhood; 
Aunt  Elizabeth  reminded  her  strongly  of  the  White  Queen  In 
the  second  part  of  that  masterpiece. 

"  Oh,  you're  not  asleep,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Elizabeth. 

"  No,  Fm  not,"  said  Maggie.    "Tm  perfectly  all  right    I  caift 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE 


Tn  nem  dona  tuoh  • 


think  what  mide  me  bdiare  like  that 
tliinc  before.    I'mulumedl" 
"It  wu  very  nituril,"  uid  Aunt  Eliubetli.    "  You  iliould  hare 

.1  ^'J**  ■'  °°**-  ''  '"  °"  '•"'«•  H'«  •»t»  now.  Nine 
cdock.  My  uiter  luneita  bed.  Supper  in  bed.  Very  nice,  I 
always  think,  after  a  Ion*  journey.  It  wiU  be  fine  to-morrow  I 
eipect.  We»e  had  beautiful  weather  un«l  thia  morning,  when  it 
rained  for  un  hour.    Chicken  and  aome  pudding.    There's  a  little 

T  vu'j '•""  "'"f.,  ""t  *  "•"'  "'"""  ''"''"  '°  "■•  '""••  for  accidenta. 
1  liked  It  myielf  when  I  bad  it  once  for  aevere  neuralgia." 

She  suddenly,  with  a  half-nerrous,  half-deape'ato  geatuie,  put 
out  her  hand  and  took  Maggie's.  Her  hand  waa  'on  like  bknc- 
mange;  it  had  apparently  no  bonea  in  it. 

Maggie  was  touched  and  grateful.  She  liked  thia  little  shy, 
frightened  woman.    She  would  do  anything  to  pleaae  her 

Don't  think,"  she  said  eagerly,  "that  I've  ever  fainted  like 
ttat  before.  I  awure  you  that  I've  never  done  anything  so  silly. 
Tou  mustn't  think  that  I'm  not  strong.  I'm  strong  as  a  horse- 
father  always  said  so.  I've  come  to  help  you  and  Aunt  Anne  in 
any  way  I  can.  You  mustn't  think  that  I'm  going  to  be  in  the 
way.    I  only  want  to  be  useful." 

Aunt  Elizabeth  started  and  looked  at  the  door.    "I  thought  I 
heard  something,"  she  said.    They  both  listened. 
'  Perhaps  it  was  the  parrot,"  said  Maggie. 
Viint  Elizabeth  smiled  bravely. 

JThri«  are  often  noises  in  an  old  house  like  this,"  she  said 

The  black  cat  came  towards  them,  slowly,  with  immense  digni- 
fied indifference.  He  svning  his  tail  as  though  to  show  them  that 
he  car«l  for  no  one.  He  walked  to  the  door  and  waited;  then 
followed  them  out  of  the  room. 

Maggie  found  that  her  bedroom  was  a  room  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  very  white  and  clean,  with  a  smell  of  soot  and  tallow  candle 
that  was  new  and  attractive.  There  was  a  large  text  in  bright 
purple  over  the  bed-"  The  Lord  cometh;  prepare  ye  the  way  of 
the  Lord.  From  the  window  one  saw  roofs,  towers,  chimneys  a 
sweeping  arc  of  sky— lights  now  spun  and  sparkled  into  pathways 
and  out  again,  driven  by  the  rumble  behind  them  that  never 
ceased,  although  muflled  by  the  closed  window. 

They  talked  together  for  a  little  while,  standing  near  the 
window,    the    candle    wavering    in    Aunt    Elizabeth's    unsteady 

"We  thought  you'd  like  this  top  room.  It's  quieter  than  the 
rest  of  the  house.     Sometimes  when  the  sweep  hasn't  been  the 


I  11 


Wh 


88 


THE  CAPTIVES 


toot  tumble*  down  tlx  chimney.  Tou  mustn't  mind  that.  Tbomu 
will  puih  open  the  door  and  welli  in  at  timet.    It's  hie  way." 

"Thomait"  laid  Mamie  bewildered. 

"Our  cat.  He  haa  been  with  ua  for  many  yean  now.  Tboee 
who  know  uy  that  he  might  hare  taken  prizea  once.  I  can't  tell 
I'm  sure.  If  you  pull  that  bell  when  you  want  anytbins  Martha 
will  come.  She  will  call  you  at  half-patt  Kven;  preyen  are  in 
the  dining-room  at  a  quarter  peat  eight.  Sometimet  the  wind 
blows  through  the  wall-paper,  but  it  is  only  the  wind." 

Maggie  drew  back  the  curtains  that  hid  the  glitter  of  the  lights. 

"Were  those  great  frienda  of  youra,  thoae  gentlemen  thia 
evening! " 

"  The  one  who  wears  spectacles,  Mr.  Magnus — yes,  he  is  a  Teiy 
old  friend.    He  is  devoted  to  my  sister.    He  writes  stories." 

"What,  in  thepaperal" 

"  No,  in  books.    Two  every  year." 

"And  the  other  one!" 

"That  is  young  Mr.  Warlock — he  ii  the  ton  of  our  minilter," 

"  Does  he  live  near  here) " 

"  He  livet  just  now  with  his  parents.  Of  late  years  he  has  been 
•broad." 

"  He  doesn't  look  like  the  eon  of  a  minister,"  said  Maggie. 

"  No,  I'm  afraid "  Aunt  Elisabeth  suddenly  stopped.    "  Hit 

father  has  been  minister  of  our  chapel  for  twenty  years.  He  it 
•  great  and  wonderful  man." 

"Where  is  the  chapel!" 

"Very  near  at  hand.  Tou  will  tee  it  to-morrow.  To-morrow 
is  Sunday." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Maggie  knew  that  now  was  the  time 
when  she  should  say  something  friendly  and  affectionate.  She 
could  say  nothing.  She  stared  at  her  aunt,  then  at  a  long  mirror 
that  faced  her  bed,  then  at  the  lighted  sky.  She  felt  warmly  grate- 
ful, eager  to  show  all  the  world  that  she  would  do  her  best,  that 
ahe  was  ready  to  give  herself  to  this  new  life  with  all  her  soul  and 
strength — she  could  say  nothing. 

They  waited. 

At  last  her  aunt  said : 

"  Good-night,  dear  Maggie." 

"  Good-night,  Aunt  Elizabeth." 

She  stole  away,  leaving  the  candle  upon  the  chest  of  drawers; 
the  cat  followed  her,  swinging  his  tail. 

Left  alone,  Maggie  felt  the  whole  sweep  of  her  excitement.  She 
waa  exhausted,  her  body  felt  as  though  it  had  been  trampled 


THE  LONDON  HOUSE  If 

apoB,  alM  wii  10  tir«l  that  ihe  could  letntlj  ing  her  cIotbM 
from  her,  but  the  exaltation  of  her  tpirit  wai  beyond  and  above  all 
thia.  Hall  undreined  »ho  atood  before  the  long  mirror.  She  had 
never  before  poiwamd  a  long  looking-glaaa.  and  now  the  .eemed  to 
aee  heraelf  a.  the  really  waa  for  the  first  time.  Wa.  the  vetr 
ugly  and  unattractive  I  Yea,  ihe  muat  be  with  tii«t  .'umpy  body 
thoae  thick  legt  and  armi.  that  thort  noae  and  Urge  laoulh.  And 
aho  did  not  know  what  to  do  to  heraelf  to  make  heraelf  attractive. 
Other  girl,  knew  but  sho  had  never  had  any  one  who  could  tell 
her.  Perhapa  the  would  make  girl  friends  now  who  would  ahow 
oer. 

.,?"*•  ■/.'"  ;"•  '•'•  ^^^  ""*  M"!'  She  was  herself.  People  who 
did  not  like  her  could  leave  her-yea  they  could,  and  ahe  would 
not  stir  a  finger  to  fetch  them  back. 

Then,  deep  down  in  her  soul,  the  knew  that  the  wanted  success 
•  magnilicent  life,  a  great  future.  Nay  more,  she  expected  it. 
She  had  force  and  strength,  and  ahe  would  compel  life  to  give 
her  what  ahe  wanted.  She  laughed  at  herself  in  the  glass.  She 
was  happy,  almost  triumphant,  and  for  no  reason  at  all. 

She  went  to  her  windows  and  opened  them;  there  came  up  to 
her  the  tramping  progress  of  the  motor-omnibuses.  They  ad- 
vsnced,  like  elephants  charging  down  a  jungle,  nearer,  nearer 
nearer.  Before  the  tramp  of  one  had  passed  another  waa  ad- 
vancing, and  then  upon  that  another— ceaseletaly,  advancing  and 
retreating. 

In  her  nightdress  ahe  leaned  out  of  the  window,  poised,  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  above  a  swaying  carpet  of  lighta. 

Life  seemed  to  hold  every  promiae  in  store  for  her. 

She  crossed  to  her  bed,  drew  the  clothes  about  her  and,  for- 
getting her  supper,  forgetting  all  that  had  happened  to  her,  her 
journey,  her  fainting,  the  young  man,  Edward  the  parrot,  she 
feU  into  a  slumber  as  deep,  as  secure,  as  death  itself. 


OHAPTEB  IV 


TBE  CHAPEL 

MAGGIE  woke  next  morning  to  a  strange  silence.    Many 
were  the  silent  mornings  that  had  greeted  her  at  St.  Dreota 
but  this  was  silence  with  a  difference;  it  was  the  silence,  she  was 
instantly  aware,  of  some  one  whose  very  soul  was  noise  and 
tumult.    She  listened,  and  the  sudden  chirping  of  some  sparrows 
beyond  her  window  only  accentuated  the  sense  of  expectation, 
bhe  had  never,  in  all  her  days,  been  so  conscious  of  Sunday. 
She  was  almost  afraid  to  move  lest  she  should  break  the  spell 
She  lay  in  bed  and  thought  of  the  preceding  evening.     Her 
fainting  fit  seemed  to  her  now  more  than  ever  unfortunate:  it 
had  placed  her  at  a  disadvantage  with  them  all.    She  could  imagine 
the  stout  young  man  returning  to  his  home  and  saying-  "Their 
niece  has  arrwed.    Seems  a  weak  little  thing.    Fainted  right  off 
the.-e  m  the  drawing-room."    Or  her  aunts  saying  anxiously  to  one 
another:  "Well,  I  didn't  know  she  was  as  delicate  as  that     I 
hope  she  won't  be  always  ill,"  ...  and  she  wam't  delicate-no 
one  stronger.    She  had  never  fainted  before.    The  silliness  of  it  I 
Ihe  next  thing  that  disturbed  her  was  the  comfort  and  arrange- 
ment of  everything.     Certainly  the  drawing-room  had  not  been 
very  orderly,  fuU  of  old  things  badly  placed,  but  this  bedroom 
was  clean  and  tidy,  and  the  supper  last  night,  so  neat  on  its  tray 
with  everythinjf  that  she  could  want  I     She  could  feel  the  order 
and  discipline  of  the  whole  house.    And  she  had  never,  in  all  her 
life,  been  either  orderly  or  disciplined.    She  had  never  been  brought 
up  to  be  so.    How  could  you  be  orderly  when  there  were  holes  in 
the  bedroom  ceiling  and  the  kitchen  floor,  holes  that  your  father 
would  never  trouble  to  have  mended? 

Her  aunts  would  wish  her  to  help  in  the  house  and  she  would 
forget  things.  There  passed  before  her,  in  that  Sunday  quiet  a 
terrible  procession  of  the  things  that  she  would  forget.  She  knew 
that  she  would  not  be  patient  under  correction,  especially  under 
the  correction  of  her  Aunt  Anne.  Already  she  felt  in  her  a 
rebellion  at  her  aunt's  aloofness  and  passivity.  After  all  why 
should  she  treat  every  one  as  though  she  were  God?  Maggie  felt 
that  there  was  in  her  aunt's  attitude  something  sentimental  and 
60 


THE  CHAPEL 


61 


tSeettd.  She  hated  wntiment  and  affectation  in  any  one.  She 
was  afraid,  too,  that  Anne  buUied  Aunt  Eliiabeth.  Mamie  waa 
aoriy  for  Aunt  EliMbcth  but,  with  all  the  arrogance  of  the  young, 
a  httlo  dMpised  her.  Why  did  she  tremble  and  start  like  that? 
She  should  stand  up  for  herself  and  not  mind  what  her  sister  said 
to  her.  Finally,  there  was  something  about  the  house  for  which 
Maggie  could  not  quite  account,  some  uneasiness  or  expectation 
as  though  one  knew  that  there  was  some  one  behind  the  door  and 
was  therefore  afraid  to  open  it  It  may  have  been  simply  London 
that  was  behind  it  Maggie  was  ready  to  attribute  anything  to 
the  influence  of  that  tremendous  power,  but  her  own  final  im- 
pression was  that  the  people  in  this  house  had  for  too  long  a  time 
been  brooding  over  something.  •'  It  would  do  my  aunts  a  lot  of 
good  to  move  somewhere  else,"  she  said  to  herself.  «  As  Aunt  Anne 
ir"  ^'o.u""""'^  '"  ""*  ^  ="'*  *'■>■'  "''y  "he  d««n't  live 

J,  .J  J     "*"  °"^  ^'"^  *•"*  ■*«  "«»  to  l««m  before  the 
end  of  toe  day. 

Her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  little  whirr  and  clatter, 
fljich,  thin  and  distant  though  it  was,  penetrated  into  her  room. 
The  whirr  was  followed  by  the  voice,  clear,  self-confident  and 
che.'rful,  of  a  cuckoo.  Maggie  was  in  an  instant  out  of  bed  into 
the  passage  and  standing,  in  her  nightdress,  before  a  high,  old 
cuckooHiIock  that  stood  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  The  wooden  bird 
looking  down  at  her  in  friendly  fashion,  "cuckooed"  eirfit  times 
flapped  his  wings  at  her  and  disappeared.  It  is  a  suflicient  witness 
to  Maggies  youth  and  ineiperience  that  she  was  enraptured  by 
aiis  event.  It  was  not  only  that  she  had  never  seen  a  cuckoo-clock 
before;  she  had,  for  that  matter,  never  heard  of  the  existence  of 
Buch  a  thing.  It  gave  her  greater  happiness  than  any  bare  me- 
chanical discovery  could  have  done.  The  bird  seemed  to  have  come 
to  ba.  in  the  friendliest  way,  to  remove  some  of  the  chilly  pas- 
!rVTu-  ?."'*•    ^"  ^**^'*  ^«"  ''°<=e  her  arrival  had  been 

A  !r!  ^'l'  ""'f  "  "  "''■'"^  "°*'"«  ""  e™'  KoiiK  to  happen," 
and  that  'she  would  never  get  out  of  it."  "It  will  be  just  as  it 
has  been  all  my  life,  seeing  nothing,  doing  nothing-only  instead 
of  father  it  will  be  the  aunts."  The  bird  seemed  to  p.omise  her 
adventure  and  excitement.  To  most  people  it  would  have  been 
only  a  further  sign  of  an  old-fashioned  household  ff,r  behind  the 
times.  To  Maggie  it  was  thrilling  and  encouragintt.  He  would 
remind  her  every  hour  of  the  day  of  the  possibility  cf  fun  in  a 
world  tiiat  was  full  of  surprises.  She  heard  sudden];  a  (tep  uehind 
ner  and  a  dry  voice  saying: 

"  Tour  hot  water,  Miss  Maggie." 


62 


THE  CAPTIVES 


She  turned  round,  bluahing  at  being  caught  staring  up  at  a 
cuckoo-clock  like  a  baby  in  her  nightdress,  to  face  the  wrinkled 
old  woman  who  the  night  before  had  brought  her,  with  a  grudging 
countenance,  her  supper.    Maggie  had  thought  then  that  this  old 
Uartba  did  not  like  her  and  resented  the  extra  work  that  her 
stay  in  the  house  involved;  she  was  now  more  than  ever  sure  of 
that  dislike. 
"  I  thought  I  was  to  be  called  at  half-past  seven." 
I*  Eight  on  Sundays,"  said  the  old  woman.    "  I  hope  you're  better 
this  morning,  miss." 
Maggie  felt  this  to  be  deeply  ironical  and  flushed. 
"I'm  quite  well,  thank  you,"  she  said  stiffly.    "What  time  ii 
breakfast  on  Sundays?" 
"  The  prayer-bell  rings  at  a  quarter  to  nine,  miss." 
They  exchanged  no  more  conversation. 

At  a  quarter  to  nine  a  shrill,  jangling  bell  rang  out  and  Maggie 
hurried  down  the  dark  staircase.  She  did  not  know  where  the 
dining-room  was,  but  by  good  chance  she  caught  sight  i.*  Aunt 
Elizabeth's  little  body  moving  hurriedly  down  the  passage  and 
hastened  after  her.  She  arrived  only  just  in  time.  There,  stand- 
ing m  a  row  before  four  chairs,  their  faces  red  and  shining,  their 
hands  folded  in  front  of  them,  were  the  domestics ;  there,  with  a 
little  high  desk  in  front  of  her,  on  the  other  side  of  the  long  dining- 
room  table  was  Aunt  Anne;  here,  near  the  door,  were  two  chairs 
obviously  intended  for  Aunt  Elizabeth  and  Maggie. 

Maggie  in  her  haste  pushed  the  door,  and  it  banged  loudly  be- 
hind her;  in  the  silent  room  the  noise  echoed  through  the  house. 
It  was  followed  by  a  piercing  scream  from  Edward,  whom,  Maggie 
concluded,  it  had  awakened.  All  this  confused  her  very  much 
and  gave  her  anything  but  a  religious  state  of  mind. 

What  followed  resembled  very  much  the  ceremonies  with  which 
her  father  had  been  accustomed  to  begin  the  day,  except  that  her 
father,  with  one  eye  on  the  bacon,  had  gabbled  at  frantic  pace 
through  the  prayers  and  Aunt  Anne  read  them  very  slowly  and 
with  great  beauty.  She  read  from  the  Gospel  of  St.  John :  ''  These 
things  I  command  you,  that  ye  love  one  another  .  .  .";  but  the 
clear,  sweet  tones  of  her  voice  gave  no  conviction  of  a  love  for 
mankind. 

Maggie  looking  from  that  pale  remote  face  to  the  roughened 
cheeks  and  plump  body  of  the  kitchen-maid  felt  that  here  there 
could  be  no  possible  bond.  When  they  knelt  down  she  was  con- 
scious, as  she  had  been  since  she  was  a  tiny  child,  of  two  things— 
the  upturned  heels  of  the  servants'  boots  and  the  discomfort  to  her 


THE  CHAPEL  63 

own  kneea.  These  two  facfs  had  always  hindered  her  religious 
devotions,  and  t-e^nindered  them  now.  There  had  always  been 
to  her  something  irresistibly  comic  in  those  upturned  heels,  the 
dull  flat  surfaces  of  these  cheap  shoes.  In  the  kitchen-maid's  there 
were  the  signs  of  wear;  Martha's  were  new  and  shining;  the  house- 
maid s  were  smart  and  probably  creaked  abominably.  The  bodies 
above  them  sniffed  and  rustled  and  sighed.  The  vacant,  stupid 
faces  of  the  shoes  were  Aunt  Anne's  only  audience.  Maggie  won- 
dered what  the  owners  of  those  shoes  felt  about  the  house.  Had 
they  a  sense  of  irritation  too  or  did  they  perhaps  think  about 
nothing  at  all  save  their  food,  their  pay  and  their  young  man  or 
their  night  out?  The  pain  to  her  knees  pierced  her  thoughts-  the 
prayers  were  very  lonr-Aunt  Anne's  beautiful  voice  was  in- 
terminable. 

Breakfast  was  quiet  and  silent.     Edward,  who   received  ap- 
parently a  larger  meal  on  Sundays  than  at  ordinary  times,  chat- 
tered happily  to  himself,  and  Maggie  heard  him  say  complacently. 
P(»r  Parrot-Toor  Parrot    HowdoyoudoJ    How  do  you  do?" 

Service  IS  at  eleven  o'clock,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Anne.    "We  leave 
tne  house  at  ten  minutes  to  eleven." 

Maggie,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  the  hour  in  front  of  her 
went  up  to  her  bedroom,  found  the  servant  making  the  bed,  came 
down  into  the  drawing-room  and  sat  in  a  dark  comer  under  a 
large  bead  mat,  that,  nailed  to  the  wall,  gave  little  taps  «id 
rustlings  as  though  it  were  trying  to  escape. 

She  felt  that  she  should  be  doing  something,  but  what!  She 
sat  there,  straining  her  ear  for  sounds.  "  One  always  seems  to  be 
expecting  some  one  m  this  house,"  she  thought.  The  weather  that 
n^i^"  "^  '  had  now  changed  and  little  gusts  of  rain  beat 
upon  the  wmdows.  She  thought  with  a  sudden  strange  warmth 
of  0nceMath«v.  What  was  he  doing?  Where  was  he?  How 
pleasant  it  would  be  were  he  suddenly  to  walk  into  that  chilly, 
dark  room.  She  would  not  show  him  that  she  was  lonely,  but  she 
would  give  him  such  a  welcome  as  be  had  never  had  from  her 
before.  Had  he  money  enough?  Was  he  feeling  perhaps  as 
desolate  amongst  strangere  as  she?  The  rain  tickled  the  window- 
panes.  Maggie,  with  a  desolation  at  her  heart  that  she  was  too 
proud  to  own,  sat  there  and  waited. 

She  looked  back  afterwards  upon  that  moment  as  the  last  shiver- 
ing pause  before  she  made  that  amazing  plunge  that  was  to  give 
ner  new  life. 

The  sound  of  a  little  forlorn  bell  suddenly  penetrated  the  rain 
It  w»is  just  such  a  bell  as  rang  every  Sunday  from  chapels  across 


m 


M 


THE  CAPTIVES 


the  Glebeahire  moon,  and  Uairgie  knen,  when  Aunt  Elixabetli 
opened  the  door  and  looked  in  upon  he  ,  that  the  summons  was 
for  her. 

"Ohl  my  dear  (a  favourite  uclamation  of  Aunt  Elizabeth's) 
and  you're  not  ready.  The  bell's  begun.  The  rain's  coming  down 
very  hard,  I'm  afraid.  It's  only  a  step  from  our  door.  Your  things, 
dear,  as  quick  as  you  can." 

The  girl  ran  upstairs  and,  stayed  by  some  sudden  impulse,  stood 
for  a  moment  before  the  long  mirror.  It  was  as  though  she  were 
imploring  that  familiar  casual  figure  that  she  saw  there  not  to 
leave  her,  the  only  friend  she  had  in  a  world  that  was  suddenly 
terrifying  and  alarming.  Her  old  black  dress  that  bad  seemed 
almost  smart  for  the  St  Dreot  funeral  now  appeared  most  des- 
perately shabby;  she  knew  that  her  black  hat  was  anything  but 
attractive. 

"What  do  I  care  for  them  alll"  her  heart  said  defiantly. 
"  What  do  they  matter  to  mel " 

She  marched  out  of  the  house  behind  the  aunts  with  her  head 
in  the  air,  very  conscious  of  a  hole  in  one  of  her  thin  black  gloves. 

The  street,  deserted,  danced  in  the  rain;  the  little  bell  clanged 
with  the  stupid  monotony  of  its  one  obstinate  idea;  the  town  wore 
its  customary  Sunday  air  of  a  stage  when  the  performance  is 
concluded,  the  audience  vanished  and  the  lights  turned  down.  The 
aunts  had  a  solemn  r.'r  as  though  they  were  carrying  Haggle  as  a 
sacrifice.    All  these  things  were  depressing. 

They  turned  out  of  their  own  street  into  a  thin,  grey  one  in 
which  the  puddles  sprang  and  danced  against  isolated  milk-cans 
and  a  desolate  pillar-box.  The  little  bell  was  now  loud  and 
strident,  and  when  they  passed  into  a  passage  which  led  into  a 
square,  rather  grimy  yard,  Maggie  saw  that  they  had  arrived. 
Before  her  was  a  hideous  building,  the  colour  of  beef  badly  cooked, 
with  grey  stone  streaks  in  it  here  and  there  and  thin,  narrow 
windows  of  grey  glass  with  stiS,  iron  divisions  between  the  glass. 
The  porch  to  the  door  was  of  the  ugliest  grey  stone  with  "The 
Lord  Cometh"  in  big  black  letters  across  the  top  of  it  Just 
inside  the  door  was  a  muddy  red  mat,  and  near  the  mat  stood  a 
gentleman  in  a  faded  frock-coat  and  brown  boots,  an  official  ap- 
parently. There  arrived  at  the  same  time  as  Maggie  and  her  aunti 
a  nimiber  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  all  hidden  beneath  umbrellas. 
As  they  stood  in  the  doorway  a  sudden  scuny  of  wind  and  rain 
drove  them  all  forward  io  that  there  was  some  crush  and  con- 
fusion in  the  little  passage  beyond  the  door.  Waterproofs  steamed ; 
umbrellas  were  ranged  in  dripping  disorder  against  the  wall.    The 


THE  CHAPEL 


65 


creaking  of  his  boots,  welcomed  them  all  with  the  int^acv  of  « 
old  "cQuamUnce  «0h.  Miss  Hearst-terrible  weathe^S^o  .hS 
not  here  yet/'  "Good  moming,  Mrs.  Smith-veor  S  you^ 
better.  Yes,  I  spoke  to  them  about  the  prayer-books  Thev  mo^ 
ised  to  return  them  this  morning  .  "  and  sT™  „  ^  P™"" 
puahed  back  a  door  and  led  the  w'a^  inti  the"  cC  tI*  iS 

r*  ^"^^J  'V^^  °"'''^«-  '^^  ™"»  ''"e  of  the  coldes"  J^ev 
stone,  broken  here  and  there  by  the  lighter  grey  of  a  wind^^ 

tZ°V^^  '°°!-''"^,  "'"^"  '■""*  °f  «!""  bright  shining  wo^ 
that  belongs  intimately  to  colonial  life,  sheep-shearing  appIeTrf 
an  immense  sue  and  brushwood.  Two  lamps  of  black  iron  hjg 
from  these  rafters.    At  the  farther  end  of  the  chapel  was  a  raU 

In  front  of  the  rail  was  a  harmonium  before  which  was  alreadv 
seated  a  stout  and  e:.pectant  lady,  evidently  eag^r  to  begin^r 

ne^a'ri:  fi,,'^^  %,  ^""^  '^'^'f  -'  -»  "^^  ■arge'^nd  "was  a'eat 
nearly  tilled.  Ihe  congregation  was  sitting  in  absolute  silenc^ 
so  that  the  passing  of  Maggie  and  her  aunts  up  the  Se  attrS 

ro^Z  ?  "'"'u'^  5"'  ""^  ^°°^  "•'at  "as  obviously  her  own 
regular  seat  near  the  front.  Maggie  sat  between  her  two  aunr 
She  could  not  feel  for  the  moment  anything  but  a  startled  s^ 

times  the  Glebeshire  chapels,  but  their  primitive  position  and  need 

^t^'!h  .•?  *'  P"*  "*  •""'™'  ""<=«"ty-  Here  she  Sad  «- 
pected  she  did  not  know  what.  Always  from  those  very  eariy 
days  when  she  had  first  hea-d  about  her  aunts  she  had  had  viS 
of  a  strange  iluminated  place  into  which  God,  "riding  on  a 
^.riot  clothed  in  flames."  would  one  day  come.  Ev4  after  she 
had  grown  up  she  had  still  fancied  that  the  centre  of  her  aunu* 

And  yet  now.  as  she  looked  around  her,  she  was  not   to  her  own 

surprise,  disappointed.     She  was  even  satisfied;  the  "wondeT^ 

'Mnside'.'"  "'f,.'»"W>''«-     Well,  then,  it  must  be  in  something 

fh.  «K  *;i-     °'**,'"*  *''"*  '^^  '"»'•  y^t  *o  discover.    The  chapel  had 

Sh«  -"*•"!?'"/  °^'  ""'■=  P'"'"  '''»'  ^°^  that  carries  a'ewel 
She  exa..ined  then  the  people  around  her.    Women  were  in  a 

a^n^ShTH^'  '  ""•° -"""^•i  ^"■""•■y  amongst  them  :„:«  anS 
l^t     Ti        <''»™™"*d  at  once  the  alert  eyes  of  young  Mr   Wai> 

wom«i  beside  him.    He  stared  straight  in  front  of  him.  wr^^ 


i] 


66 


THE  CAPTIVES 


gling  iometiines  hia  brotd  back  as  tbough  he  were  a  dog  tied  by  a 
chain.  Some  one  else  very  quickly  claimed  Uaggie's  attention; 
this  was  a  girl  who,  in  the  seat  behind  Mr.  Warlock,  was  as  notice- 
able in  that  congregation  as  a  bird-of-paradise  amongst  a  colony 
of  crows.  She  was  wearing  a  dress  of  light  blue  silk  and  a 
large  hat  of  blue  with  a  grey  bird  in  the  front  of  it 

Hep  hair,  beneath  the  hat,  was  bright  gold,  her  cheeks  were  the 
brightest  pink  and  her  eyes  sparkled  in  a  most  lovely  and  fas- 
cinating manner.  She  was  immensely  interesting  to  Maggie,  who 
had  never,  in  her  life,  dreamed  of  anything  so  dazzling.  She  was 
very  restless  and  animated  and  self-conscious.  There  sat  at  her 
aide  a  stout  and  solemn  woman,  who  was  evidently  from  a  strange, 
almost  ironical  likenesa  her  mother.  The  young  lady  seemed  to 
regard  both  the  place  and  the  occasion  as  the  greatest  joke  in  the 
world.  She  flung  her  eyes  from  one  to  another  as  though  inviting 
some  one  to  share  her  merriment. 

Amongst  that  black-garbed  assembly  the  blue  dress  shone  out 
as  though  it  would  attract  everything  to  itself.  "She's  very 
pretty,"  thought  Maggie,  who  was  more  conscious  of  her  shabby 
elothea  than  ever.  But  her  chief  feeling  was  of  surprise  that  so 
brilliant  a  bird  had  been  able  to  penetrate  into  the  chapel  at  all. 
"She  must  be  a  stranger  just  come  out  of  curiosity."  Then  the 
girl's  eyes  suddenly  met  Maggie's  and  held  them ;  the  brilliant  crea- 
ture smiled  and  Maggie  smiled  in  return.  She  looked  afterwards  at 
Aunt  Anne,  but  Aunt  Anne,  buried  in  her  book  of  devotions,  had 
seen  nothing. 

Suddenly,  after  a  strange  wheeze  and  muffled  scream,  the  har- 
monium began.  Every  one  looked  up  expectantly;  Mr.  Warlock, 
alone,  appeared  from  a  door  at  the  right  of  the  screen  and  took 
his  place  behind  the  desk. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  facing  them  before  he  took  his  place. 
He  was  a  man  of  great  size,  old  now  but  holding  himself  abso- 
lutely erect.  He  was  dressed  in  a  plain  black  gown  with  a  low, 
white  collar  and  a  white  tie.  This  long  gown  added  to  his  height, 
but  the  width  of  the  shoulders  and  neck,  and  the  carriage  of  his 
head  showed  that  he  was  a  man  built  on  a  noble  scale.  His  hair 
was  snow-white  and  he  wore  a  beard,  that  was  in  startling  con- 
trast against  his  black  gown.  His  cheeks  were  of  high  colour, 
his  eyes  blue;  he  was  older  than  Maggie  had  expected  and  must, 
she  thought,  be  over  seventy.  His  whole  bearing  and  behaviour 
was  of  a  man  who  had  enjoyed  great  physical  health.  His  ex- 
pression was  mild  and  simple,  dignified  but  not  proud,  utterly 
unconscious  of  self,  earnest  and  determined,  lacking  in  humour 


THE  CHAPEL 


67 


-J^rf  ,.';^.i-„rs  ^-^L-ffi  is." 

coming,  that  we  may  be  found  watchimr  with  «„■.  i^J!,.     -I       j 
our  lamps  lU.  waiting  in  prayer  tor^;  ZJm  day    '^^  "'"' 

that  her  eyes  should  not  be  caught  "ug>ng  ner  nead  aa 

Th^MT^Jl™*  *J  "•"  S".'™™  "^  "■«  P"^"™  of  the  service. 
Then  the  clear  emphasia  of  his  voice  caught  again  her  atSot 


I 
k 


Iff'  I 


91 


68 


THE  CAPTIVES 


«  Our  l«won  for  to^.y."  he  uid,  «li  from  the  Fortieth  Chtnter 
oflMith."    He  proceeded  to  read:  omeui  untpter 

Comfort  ye,  comfort  ye  my  people,  uith  your  God. 

Speak  ye  comfortably  to  Jeruulem.  and  cry  unto  her,  that  her 

^■"^VT'^^^"M'  *^"-  ^"  '"'0""y  »  pardoned:  for  .he  hath 
received  of  the  Lord's  hand  double  for  all  her  lina 

«v  y^rr'^J''"'  u"  '"f?  '"  *^^  'ilderaea*.  Prepare  ye  the 
way  of  the  Lord,  make  atraight  in  the  deaert  a  highway  for  our 

Ereij  valley  ehall  be  exalted,  and  every  mountain  and  hill  .hJl 

rtgTt«rp,:rn':  "*'  "~'^  """  »»  ""<^*  '*'"'•"*•  ""•  ^ 
And  the  glory  of  the  Lord  .hall  be  revealed,  and  all  fleah  ahaU 

see  It  together:  for  the  mouth  of  the  Lord  bath  .poken  it 
The  voice  said.  Cry.    And  he  Mid,  What  .hall  I  cry}    AU  fladi 

«^gra«,  and  all  the  goodlinesa  the'reof  i.  as  theToL  of  S^ 

d.a'il':trd"fo7lvr'''  *""  """  "*'•'=  ""*  *•"  "-"^  "'  o"  ««> 

olTudT^f  Sfyiufoj^r  "-  -'  ''--''■■  -"*»  '-"'"^ 
.h.^  ™?J  */*  l^'^  ?*?  '"l.~"'«  "'t""  X'™*  hand,  and  hi.  arm 

Ht  .hall  feed  hia  flock  like  a  .hepherd;  he  .hall  gather  the  lamb. 

rt.!!l  *l  t  '  "l^"'"^  ♦''e™  in  his  bosom,  and  shall  gently  lead 
those  that  are  Vfith  young.  s"!""*  leaa 

TwT  "" Y»  '■  T  ^^^  ."***'*  "■"'^  *^»  ""•'ins  of  thow,  words. 
They  brought  ins  antly  back  to  her  her  father's  voice,  the  straZ 

tatlnH  mt'r  "v  "•"*.•■'  """^"^  *°  *•■*  »"'•  hi'  voice  heal! 
i^«  .™«  ii  "  t"  ™°'^'^"°«  «y«  '""Bht  the  misbehaviour  of 
some  small  boy  m  the  choir. 

tJ!^  **  ^fd.  were  charged  with  a  conviction  that  was  neither 

«i?l  "  ""i*"*  *"  '*'.""'*'''  «««<=*•  I'  '"'  "  though  a  herald 
read  some  proclamation  for  his  master  who  wac  approaching"h« 
^tes  of  the  city^  The  hymns  and  prayers  that  folbwei^^J^ 
to  have  no  importance.  The  hymns  happened  on  that  day  to  be 
familiar  ones  that  Maggie  had  always  known:  "  As  pants  tie  hart 
for  coohng  streams,"  "Just  as  I  am,  without  one  pW»  and 


THE  CHAPBL  ^ 

cc«U.  .nd  the  deep  -nd  umTe  ^  Toi:::^?".?^:'™^ ''*; 
the  congregation  drowning  the  ladie.  »nT„?    •  ""embers  of 

cord  upon  evervthin^      P.-Zf:  ,'"'*•.»"«'  P'««ng  a  general  dit- 

chapel.  whTh"    S  feem^'i't"  t  ?■?«'""  """«'      ^hl 
atmosphere  of  exMctatL^n.lltnifi.,^  """»  *"  «""«  ""nge 

and  .terility.     ^e  '^'r^.^' was Tn  ZZn'  "f-"^  l'''"^ 
alone.  ^     "  '°  ">«  ™«n  "nd  in  the  man 

Maggie  looked  about  her,  at  the  fam..  of  ♦!,. 
rounded  her.  They  were  <„^r.»  •  ^  ,  ""*  '"'°'«°  "'«>  "U"^ 
the  building.  The  nTarriHi  th.  "^^  ""^  '°  *'■"  •«""  '■■«>>t  of 
girls  or  women  whoTadpass^  thel^n?^  *°  ^  ?'"■*'  '^"'"'*- 
had  passed  it  without  Sure  Whet";r;?  ""J""^  °/  "^*  ""•J 
arrived  Mr.  Warlock  n«^!S  i,-  i.  5  ?  *''*  *""«  *<"  ^^e  sermon 
.ilence,  ^^n  feanifg  fS  "  ^^  H  v""'  '"""'^  "  ""«°*""'° 
words  of  his  earlier  reaZg.  **  "'^''**^  "o"""  »*  tJ"** 

mountain  and  hill  ^allbl^a^fr  "'"'''»  """ed.  and  every 
made  "traight,  andTh"rtg"''l^rnS'  "^  "'^'^  ''""  ^ 
cities  of  Judah,  Behold  your  Godl/'  '   '   "  "^  ""*»  *^ 

kinds  and  in  all  plats  Xt  teW„r,f  f  ■l?''"*'^''  °'^°  »*  «» 
his  words  Maggie  farcied  th»f.h^  *  '^''"""'  ="<^  ^'^^  Ao"  "f 
that  came  f rom^e  m  nVvet  hLrt^f  '"'"^  -^ent  insistence 
though  he  were  saving.  f„  fc!  ,,  ^^  '^^^  '"<"'«<^  •>}•  'hat  as 

ward^ordsTm^r  ^^ttt^trXser  S ''"•«'  -*' 
thing  I  must  tell  vmi     Tl,.,..  •„        .•      "y^^"-     -there  is  some- 

■ieve  me.  I  wiU  ^rpel  ™ ^li  ief°  Mow  '""•  1°?  T*'  '^- 
what  will  transform  your  l"fe»  Hb  I  7^^^'"*'  ^  "'"  ^°^ 
these  words-  ™  ?""  '"te.      He  concluded  his  sermon  with 


70 


THE  CAPTIVE8 


for  the  moment  when  they  are  to  declare  tlienielTet  and,  bjr  that 
action,  traniiform  the  world.  Until  that  moment  cornea  the;  muat 
}rad  their  ordinary  daily  livea,  ercm  aa  careleaa  of  the  future  aa 
their  fellows,  laugh  and  eat  end  work  and  play  aa  though  nothing 
beyond  the  buaineaa  of  the  day  were  their  concern.  But  in  their 
hearts  is  the  responsibility  of  their  nccrct  knowledge.  They  can- 
not be  as  other  men  knowing  what  they  dn,  they  cannot  be  to  one 
another  as  they  are  to  other  men  with  the  bond  of  their  common 
duty  shared  between  them.  Much  has  been  given  them,  much  will 
he  demanded  of  them;  and  when  the  day  cnmcs  it  will  not  be  the 
events  of  that  day  that  will  test  thrm  but  the  private  history, 
known  only  to  themselves  and  their  Uaater,  of  the  houra  that  have 
preceded  that  day. 

"I  tell  you  who  I  have  often  told  you  before  from  this  same 
place,  that  beside  the  history  of  the  spirit  the  history  of  the  body 
is  nothing — and  that  history  of  the  spirit  is  no  easy,  tranquil 
progress  from  birth  to  death,  but  must  rather  be,  if  we  are  to  have 
any  history  at  all,  a  struggle,  a  wrestling,  a  contest,  bloody,  un- 
ceasing, uncertain  in  its  issue  from  the  first  hour  until  the  last 
This  is  no  mere  warning  spoken  from  the  lips  only  by  one  who, 
from  sheer  weekly  necessity,  may  seem  to  you  formal  and  of- 
ficial; it  is  as  urgent,  as  deeply  from  the  heart  aa  though  it  were 
a  aummons  from  a  messenger  who  has  come  to  you  directly  from 
his  Master.  I  beg  of  you  to  consider  your  responsibility,  which  is 
greater  than  that  of  other  men.  We  are  brothers  bound  together 
by  a  great  expectation,  a  great  preparation,  a  great  trust.  We  are 
in  training  for  a  day  when  more  will  be  demanded  of  ua  than  of 
any  other  men  upon  the  earth.  That  ia  no  light  thing.  Let  u« 
hold  ourselves  then  as  souls  upon  whom  a  great  charge  is  laid." 

When  he  had  ended  and  knelt  again  to  pray  Maggie  felt  in- 
stantly the  inevitable  reaction.  The  harmonium  quavered  and 
rumbled  over  the  first  bars  of  some  hymn  which  began  with  the 
words,  "Cry,  sinner,  cry  before  the  altar  of  the  Lord,"  the  man 
with  the  brown,  creaking  boots  walked  about  with  a  collection 
plate,  an  odour  of  gas-pipes,  badly  heated,  penetrated  the  building, 
the  rain  lashed  the  grey  window-panes.  Maggie,  looking  about 
her,  could  not  see  in  the  pale,  tired  faces  of  the  women  who  sur- 
rounded her  the  ardent  souls  of  a  glorious  band.  Their  belief  in 
the  coming  of  God  had,  it  seemed,  done  very  little  for  them.  It 
might  be  true  that  the  history  of  the  soul  was  of  more  importance 
than  the  history  of  the  body,  but  common  sense  had  something 
to  say. 

Her  mind  went  back  inevitably  to  St  Dreot's  church,  her  father, 


THE  CHAPEL 


71 


Elton  tho  oook.  Th.t  «»  »bit  the  hiitory  of  the  q>IHt  h.d  been 
to  her  to  f.r.  Whit  retion  hid  the  to  luppoto  that  thin  wh 
•ny  more  ml  thin  that  hid  been!  NererthelcM.  when  it  the 
end  of  the  lermon  the  left  the  building  ind  went  once  more  into 
the  toaking  streeti  iomc  wnse  of  expectation  wii  with  her,  lo  that 
•he  hiatened  into  her  aunt'a  houae  aa  though  ahe  would  find  that 
aome  atringe  event  had  occurred  in  her  ibKnce. 
Nothing,  of  courae,  had  occurred. 

During  the  afternoon  the  rain  ceaaed  to  fall  and  a  dim,  grey 
light,  born  of  an  intenae  lilence,  enveloped  the  town.  About  three 
0  clock  the  aunta  went  out  to  acme  religious  gathering  and  Maggie 
waa  left  to  herself.  She  discovered  in  Aunt  Elizabeth'a  bedroom  a 
bound  volume  of  Good  Word,,  and  with  thia  aeated  heraelf  by  the 
drawing-room  fire.    Soon  ahe  slept. 

She  waa  awakened  by  a  consciouenesa  that  aome  one  was  in  the 
room  and,  sitting  up,  staring  through  the  gloom,  heard  ■  move- 
ment near  the  door,  a  ruatle.  a  little  jingle,  a  laugh. 
" la  any  one  there? "  aaid  a  high,  ahrill  voice. 
Maggie  got  up. 
"  I'm  here,"  ahe  aaid. 

Some  one  came  forward;  it  waa  the  girl  of  the  blue  dieaa  who 
had  ami  ed  at  Maggie  in  chapel.  She  held  out  her  hind—"  I  hope 
you  don  t  think  me  too  awful.  My  name's  Caroline  Smith.  How 
do  you  do?" 

They  shook  handa.    Maggie,  atill  bewildered  by  aleep.  aaid,  atam- 

mering,  «  Won  t  you  ait  down?    I  beg  your  pardon.    My  aunta " 

Oh,  It  isn't  the  aunta  I  wanted  to  aee,"  replied  Miaa  Smith, 
laughing  so  that  a  number  of  little  bracelets  jingled  most  tunefully 
together.  "I  came  to  aee  you.  We  smiled  at  one  another  in 
chape.  It  waa  your  flrat  time,  wasn't  it?  Didn't  you  think  it  aU 
awfully  quaint?" 

"Won't  you  ait  down?"  aaid  Maggie  aguin,  "and  I'll  ring  fop 
the  lamp." 

"Oh!  don't  ring  for  the  lamp.  I  like  the  dusk.  And  we  can 
make  friends  so  much  better  without  a  lamp.  I  alwaya  say  if  you 
want  to  know  anybody  really  well,  don't  have  a  light." 

She  aeated  herself  near  the  fire,  arranging  her  dress  very  care- 
fully, patting  her  hair  beneath  her  hat,  poking  her  shoes  out  from 
beneath  her  skirts,  then  withdrawing  them  again.  "Well  what 
do  you  think  of  it  all  ? " 

Maggie  stared.  She  did  not  know  what  to  aay.  She  had  never 
met  any  one  in  the  least  like  this  before. 

"I  do  hope,"  Misa  Smith  went  on,  "that  you  don't  think  me 


72 


THB  CAPTIVES 


forw«rd.  I  ittntj  you  do.  But  I  c»n't  bnr  wutii*  tiin*.  Of 
eour»e  I  hMrd  that  you  wen  coming,  to  th«n  I  looked  out  for  you 
in  clupe.  to^y.  I  thought  you  looked  m  nice  that  I  uid  to 
mother.  I II  go  «nd  we  her  thii  rery  iftemoon.'  Of  couno  I've 
known  your  aunti  for  agn.  I'm  ilwayi  in  and  out  here  io  that 
it  lin  t  ai  bad  ai  it  icemi.  They'll  all  be  back  for  tea  aoon  and  I 
want  to  have  a  talk  firat." 

«  Thank  you  very  much,"  waa  all  that  Uaggie  could  think  of 
tu  aay. 

u  t"  ^"""^  7""°  *"  "'"  ''*"'•  ^"'^'^  yo" ' "  continued  HIh  Smith. 
I  m  ao  glad.  I  think  you  look  io  nice.  You  don't  mind  my  lay- 
ing that,  do  you?  I  alwayi  tell  people  what  I  think  of  them  and 
then  one  knowi  where  one  ia.  Now.  do  tell  mo— I'm  aimply  dying 
to  know— what  do  you  think  of  ererything?" 

"Well,"  .aid  Maiwie,  amiling,  «i  only  arrived  here  yeaterday. 
It'a  rather  difficult  to  aay." 

"Oh I  I  know.    I  aaw  Mr.  Magnua  thia  morning  and  he  told  me 
that  be  met  you.    He  aaid  you  were  ill.    You  don't  look  ill." 

It  waa  Tety  ailly  of  me."  aaid  Uaggie.  "  I  don't  know  what 
made  me  faint.  I've  never  done  auch  a  thing  before." 
ir!*^  2"*^  .*"/•'■"  ''"P'y  ''*»P'  0*  timea  when  I  was  a  kid."  aaid 
MiM  Smith  «I  waa  alwayi  doing  it.  I  had  all  aorta  of  doctora. 
Ihey  thought  I  d  never  grow  up  I'm  not  very  atrong  now  really. 
Ihey  lay  it  s  heart,  but  I  alwaja  aay  it  can't  be  that  becauie  I've 
giren  It  all  away."  Here  Miia  Smith  laughed  immoderately. 
Werent  they  the  moat  terrible  aet  of  frumpa  at  chapel  thia 
morning?" 

She  did  not  wait  for  an  aniwer,  but  went  on:  "Mr.  Warlock'a  all 
nght.  of  course.  I  think  he'i  luch  a  fine-looking  man,  don't  you  I 
Of  coune  he's  old  now,  but  his  beard's  rather  attractive  J  think. 
He  I  a  duck,  but  isn't  that  harmonium  ghastly!  I  can't  think  why 
they  don't  buy  an  organ,  they're  most  awfully  rich  I  know,  and 
do  simply  nothing  with  their  money." 

"Why  do  you  go,"  said  Maggie,  "if  you  think  it  aU  ao  dread- 
ful?" 

"Oh!  I  have  to  go."  said  Miss  Smith,  "to  please  mother.  And 
one  has  to  do  something  on  Sunday,  and  besidos  one  sees  one's 
ftiends.  Did  you  notice  Martin  Warlock.  Mr.  Warlock's  aon.  you 
know.    He  was  sitting  quite  close  to  me." 

"He  was  here  yesterday  afternoon,"  said  Maggie  quietly. 

"Oh,  was  he  really?  Now  that  is  interesting.  I  wonder  what 
he  came  for.    He  scarcely  ever  comes  here.    Did  you  like  himt" 

"  I  didn't  speak  to  him,"  said  Maggie. 


THE  CUAPKL 


"f 
ml' 


78 


QVOt 

thini  <    , 

WtltOk 

"I  don 
thiniri  of  11,, 


■     1.1 


'.  r  been  hm  •  Uttia  tinM.   H.'t  Mr.  Wwlodt't 

rtn  ibrotd  and  then  tho  otlMr  da;  hii 

me  money  so  bo  ceme  home.    Hit  father 

.!..    "ay-but  of  counw  /  don't  know.    Don't 

'        J^  ••'uUy  wild.    Drink,  .11  aorU  of 

JieyTl  ny  anythin,  of  anybody.    I  think 

■     tinu  face,  don't  you  I " 

lid  Manrie,  "that  you  ought  to  aay  thoM 

Wr.^^u'Tt: '^r  r • '"" -'^'^  ^- "^  <>- ^'  -^^^ 

W^^    i    =  ..°*V."  "O""  0'  '•»"•     But  that's  ricti      Ym. 

JS."""  ""^'-    "^•"  "■^•"  I  «w  them  in  Chapel  thi. 

hum.    They\u.r.:i:i.ri'r.V,l"rC„J^"''".*'lT 

r^n'^t  ^^oi  t'ln^JS:  oU""'""  •~"  "•"'"•^    ^"*  °*  «-- 
"Inaido  Onea?"  asked  Maggie 

body  who  like,  to  come.    But  the  le.l  brethrenTive  tolJ^ v^ 
"L^q'oS  '"^.r"  '"■"'"^'  "'  thi-es-X  that'    o'^Hf^ 
^W.^        ?••"'  '.°'°'''«  '°  "  y«"  <«•  tw»-    Of  cou«e^I  don°t^ 
although  sometimes  it  makes  one  quite  creenv-all  SLn         . 
spjne.    In  c.«,,  after  all.  He  really  shouMZ'e'T:" k^Z"    "' 

"Are  my  aunts  inside!"  asked  Maggie. 
A  J;     ^l"™  *.«y  ?«:    M»s  Anne  Cardinal's  one  of  the  chief  of 

,./  "•"'  ">  sweet,    rou  wiU  be  a  fnend  of  mine  wnn'f  ,,>„  i    t 

"■  1  always  ten  ner.    She  never  brought  me  un  at  all     f  i,.  ru 

^x'^r;suv=■■iv^iKi»£E 


74 


THE  CAPTIVES 


serious  of  all  the  Brethren  and  never  has  time  to  think  about  any  of 
ns.  Then  he's  in  a  bank  all  the  week,  where  he  can't  think  about 
God  much  because  he  makes  mistakes  about  figures  if  he  does,  so 
he  has  to  put  it  all  into  Sunday.  We  will  be  friends,  won't  we! " 
It  came  to  Maggie  with  a  strange  ironic  little  pang  that  this 
was  the  first  time  that  any  one  had  asked  for  her  friendship. 
"  Of  course,"  she  said. 

■Miss  Smith's  further  confidences  were  interrupted  by  the  uunts 
and  behind  them,  to  Maggie's  great  surprise,  Mr.  Warlock  and 
his  son.  The  sudden  descent  of  these  gentlemen  upon  the  still 
lingering  echoes  of  Miss  Caroline  Smith's  critical  and  explana- 
tory remarks  embarrassed  Maggie.  Not  so  Miss  Smith.  She  kissed 
both  the  aunts  with  an  emphasis  that  they  apparently  appreciated 
for  they  smiled  and  Aunt  Anne  laid  her  hand  affectionately  upon 
the  girl's  sleeve.  Maggie,  watching,  felt  the  strangest  little  pang 
of  jealousy.  That  was  the  way  that  she  should  have  behaved,  been 
warm  and  demonstrative  from  the  beginning— but  she  could  not. 
Even  now  she  stood  back  in  the  shadows  of  the  room,  watch- 
ing them  all  with  large  grave  eyes,  hoping  that  they  would  not 
notice  her. 

With  Mr.  Warlock  and  his  son  also  Miss  Smith  seemed  per- 
fectly at  home,  chattering,  laughing  up  into  young  Warlock's  eyes, 
as  though  there  were  some  especial  understanding  between  them. 
Maggie,  nevertheless,  fancied  that  he,  young  Warlock,  was  not 
listening  to  her.  His  eyes  wandered.  He  had  that  same  restless- 
ness of  body  that  she  had  before  noticed  in  him,  swinging  a  little 
on  his  legs  set  apart,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  thick  broad 
back.  He  had  some  compelling  interest  for  her.  He  had  had  that 
she  now  realised,  since  the  first  moment  that  she  had  seen  him 
It  might  be  that  the  things  that  that  girl  had  told  her  about  him 
increased  her  interest  and,  perhaps  her  sympathy?  But  it  was  his 
strange  detnched  air  of  observation  that  held  her— as  though  he 
were  a  being  from  some  other  planet  watching  them  all,  liking 
them,  but  bearing  no  kind  of  relation  to  them  except  that  of  a 
cheerful  observei--it  was  this  that  attracted  her.  She  liked  his 
thick,  rough  untidy  hair,  the  healthy  red  brown  of  his  cheeks,  his 
light  blue  eyes,  his  air  of  vigour  and  bodily  health. 

As  she  waited  sho  was  startled  into  consciousness  by  a  voice  in 
her  ear.    She  turned  to  find  the  elder  Mr.  Warlock  beside  her. 

You  will  forgive  my  speaking  to  you.  Miss  Cardinal.    I  saw 
you  at  our  Chapel  this  morning." 

His  great  height  towered  above  her  short  clumsy  figure-   he 
seemed  to  peer  down  at  her  from  above  his  snowy  beard  as  though 


THE  CHAPEL 


75 


B^fZr  ^*  •°'"'»*''°*  ?f  «»"e  other  world.  His  voice  was  of  an 
M  reme  kindliness  and  his  eyes,  when  she  looked  up  at  him,  shone 
with  friendhness.    She  found  herself,  to  her  own  surprise,  talking 

Iff«t?/'H  "'I'Vr-  ?"  T"  '*'*""y  "'"P'*'  h^man  and  un- 
affected.   He  asked  her  about  her  country. 

perhaps  I  shall  never  see  it  again.  I  was  bom  in  Wiltshlre-SaUs- 
^.v»n  My  great-^audfather,  my  grandfather,  my  father, 

they  all  were  ministers  of  our  Chapel  there  before  me.  They  had 
no  thought  in  their  day  of  London.  I  have  always  missed  that 
spa«,_the  quiet.    I  shall  always  miss  it.    .  ,wns  are  n^l  Weng 

She  fold  him  about  St.  Dreots,  a  little  about  her  father 

chang:Vttjs"do!"''"  ""  '^'""'^  ''''"■    ^"^  ■"«-  '"  -' 

nl^^L'^T  """?'"«  T^,  f'»™  <l>e  others  near  the  window. 
He  suddenly  put  his  hand  on  her  arm ,  smiling  at  her 

My  dear.'  he  said.  "You  don't  mind  me  saying  'My  dear.' 
but  an  old  man  has  his  privileges-will  you  come  and  see  us  when- 
ever  you  care  to?    My  wife  will  be  so  glad.    I  u„.cw  that  at  fi™t 

pfeas^ '"  ""  '^™'  ^'"*"    '^'"'*  ^""^  '"  "^^^^  yo" 

He  took  her  hand  for  a  moment  and  then  turned  back  to  Aunt 
Arme.  who  was  now  pouring  out  tea  at  a  little  table  by  the  fire. 

She  had  known  that  he  would  do  that  as  though  something  had 
been  arranged  between  them.  When  he  came  ti  her,  however  he 
stood  there  before  her  and  had  nothing  to  say.  She  also  had  noth- 
ing to  say.  His  eyes  searched  her  face,  then  he  broke  out  abruptly. 
Are  you  better  ? 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  .mswered  him  brusquely.    " Please  don't  say 
anything  about  yesterday.    It  was  an  idiotic  thing  to  do  " 

That's  what  I  came  about  to-day— to  see  how  you  were"  he 
answered  her,  his  eyes  laughing  at  her.  "I  should  never 'have 
dreamed  of  coming  otherwise,  you  know.  I  saw  you  \a  chapel  this 
morning  sc  I  guessed  you  were  all  right,  but  it  seemed  such  bad 
luck  fainting  right  off  the  minute  you  got  here." 

"  I've  never  fainted  in  my  life  before,"  she  answered. 

'  No,  you  don't  look  the  sort  of  girl  who'd  faint.    But  I  sup- 
pose you've  had  a  rotten  time  with  your  father  and  all." 

His  eyes  still  searched  for  hers.    She  determined  that  she  would 
not  look  at  him;  her  heart  was  beating  strangely  and,  although 


76 


THE  CAPTIVES 


■be  did  not  lo<*,  she  could  in  some  aub-conKious  way  gee  the  lousb 
toM  of  faiB  hair  ogainat  hia  forehead;  ahe  could  amell  the  ituiT  of 
hia  coat    But  she  would  not  look  up. 

"You're  going  to  live  here,  aren't  you!" 

Tea/'aheaaid. 

"  I've  only  jnat  come  back,"  he  went  on. 

"I  know,"  ahe  aaid. 

*iJ!'?'''/u,™"T;  **■?*  Sf*'''"  ^"^'"^  W'  ^^  *°  tJ»  direction  of 
the  tea-table  and  laughing.  "She  told  you.  She'a  besn  here  thia 
afternoon,  haan't  ahe!  She  chattere  like  anything.  Don't  tou 
believe  half  ahe  aaya." 

There  waa  another  panae.  The  voicea  at  the  tea-table  aeemed  to 
come  from  very  far  away. 

Then  he  aaid  roughly,  moving  a  very  little  nearer  to  her: 

"I'm  glad  you've  come." 

At  that  ahe  raiaed  her  eyea,  her  cheeks  flushed.  She  looked  him 
full  m  the  face,  her  head  up.  Her  heart  thundered  in  her  breaat 
She  felt  as  though  ahe  were  at  the  beginning  of  some  tremendoua 
adventure-an  adventure  enthralling,  magnificentr-«nd  periloua. 


PART  H 
THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  WARLOCKS 

if  inherited  through  .^y  g"ne"  tion^ Ij"^  /  "  «°"«^i<»'»'"». 
.11  progreM  of  v.unted  civiCt'ons^nH^  '^  /  ^^^f"""  ""»■'' 
the  actual  challenge  of  death  IS  "  '  "  ""^  ^  ""^^'"^' 

century  it  eJpS^  t^?°^\u  "  ""^  f  <!<"«  of  tfce  eighteenth 
rival:  the  JohrWesIey  of  that  d/v  ."'.  "'°''°  ^'^'^y''  «" 

l«Wth  and  breadth  of  W^stmoreIanyp''K'^ "''."'''  <^™''  '•» 
land,  Durham,  and  being  a  4"?er  "l^r^"'^*''  No'tfaumber- 
human  being  L,  one  and  the  same  timr^I  !S  '.''"P'^-^inded 
and  died  full  of  years  and  honors     ''  ^""^  "  '"«^  ^""""''^ 

wirir.  TrtTn-rgran^dfatW  f  VH^  •'°''"''  '^''"'^--  J™« 
ledhi.mtlea«rontoth^lwe,n'.°™  ^'T,-t'  "'"°  '""'y  and 
Warlock,  unlike  h?s  fatwlVS^a.he  "''"'"  ""'r,-  '"'^^ 
man  with  a  narrow  chest  no  Hmf.,'  ""  "  ""'«  ""k'y 
face  Martin  had  atdld^dagu^r^o'tyr:'  h  1°"'^"  ''"'^  •""« 
background  of  the  old  Wiltshire  kTtph^  t  IT  f«'  '^''-''st  the 
upon  him  like  a  disiruisr  M.        ''"c'"™.  bis  black  clothes  hung 

Pictu™  with  the  fire  rhisTritT'-V'"*  T"  '''"'  ''^'^ 
mystic,  a  visionary,  a  prophet  h!' ^^tL^^^T  f"^'^^  ""  « 
in  no  jesting  spirk  it  was  said  th«),t^  and  talked  with  God; 
turn  the  world   "to  a  wLinL       i     *  ^"^^  °'"* »  P'""  ""d  could 

because  he  knew  with  ceStv^thatT:."  ''  S"!  •?'''"«^-  I'  '" 
descend  upon  the  «.«!,  tW  T  G»d  woujj,  ;„ 

led  his  Hurb  „rdot  nto  WihsW^f 'tt'"""  *\""''''  '"^^  «^ 
ing  Plain  they  prepared  for  God'  oomin  v  "".""  '""^'^  «'««'»- 
cote  Brethren  a'fte^hei/newl:deX%um".1;hre/''%''r'- 
and  waited.  Then  in  1840  th-  nrnAw  j  i  f  ^  P^''  "*  down 
was  not  yet,  thaTi^  wouTd  be  iHhe   '^  ""''  ^'r  '\^-'-'-l^ 

Place,  that  she  might  s^^:^^^  'ai^lZ:lX 


80 


THE  CAPTIVES 


met  .bMlutely  descend^  Slve^'f^  «»n«iou,neM  of  God  lu«I 
^^./"'^"'at  hi,  father  told  to  him  VTr"*  !''''  ''«  """'i^ 
health  and  strength,  and  those  who  i.  ^  ^'7.  'J""  «  '''"t  of 
teU  that  it  wa.  a  strange  Sre  t„  Jf.  I'T  ""  <*«y'.  >«w  them 
walking  with  odd  emoSoa'al  ge^tu^^'ith'^r.  "'!  '"^"•d  "-^ 
"■d  swmrng  of  the  arms  beside  thrSr^  '"tie  hops  and  leap, 
mw  towering  above  him.  *  *™  '""«  »'"<!«  "f  the  young 

fpunS^KdLt  tr  IZVsl'^mT'  °^  "-  '^'  ^-0-  - 
.ion  was  of  a  man  challenc^  some^''^'  7™'"*-  «"  "P™" 
he  had  found  perhaps  new  4'rs  t«  !  'f  "T''°«  discovery; 
buried  him  in  Kingsoote  wd  hi.^'  *°  ''"'^™'"  ^-'^  «««.     ThX^ 

But  they  we™  ^^ac^fng^'C"  aTd^^  j"  '"''■»'''"^- 
old  days  of  simple  faith  and  sm^^fv         '^"'^  ''"""•     The«> 

souls  and  these  elements  dem»nH^%  the  K.nggpo,^  company  of 
action.  They  « Wed  that™  ttlhem'."'"^  '"'*''  "^  '^"-e^^nl 
tie  tzme  and  manner  of  Qo^.^eoraL  w?  T  "^  "'  '^  ^orld 
rr-lilar  "■'^^  ""^''^-  --^^er-tpht^-^SstS^ 

i./"t?.;'t  Artfhii'  r-"""^  *°  *-«  <>"  -^  th.t 

Pla<ion.  Hehadnowish  t^brini"  '"™  ""*  ''"'et  for  oontem- 
a  frenry  of  terror  ^Hnt  eipa«fn     gJ''"''  l"-  '"'  ^ng Jd  ITo 

^ad  cherished  his  own  smaU  romnl^^  f  "•  *'""'«''  ^^  ^'^  been! 
^.thinp,  hidden  deTb^rS  ?fom  tT'""-'""'' """'^ 
^'^  been  entrusted.        ^      "^  *''*  outside  world,  had 

•omewhere  a'ro'^rwsol'Jhrffi!,^^^^^^^^  he  was  about  forty. 

In  this  year,  1907,  John  WariX™  Brethren  moved  to  London, 
cote  Brethren  had  had  thefr  of.Zf  •'""i^."'*''*"  «nd  the  Kinm 
Garrick  Street,  for  twent^v^n^'  ""  ^r"'"""''''  ^^"^-  beSnd 

llklT^'^.^*'"'<J"«'^te^7f  Cnc/ssf.  i'*°  '""^  ^"'-^ 
1881  a  daughter.  Amy,  was  born  tnT    ^'.^P''™'.  merchant    In 


THE  WARLOCKS  gi 

shop  '  ''"'*^'  ''"*  "■•«»*!«  <"ner  of  the  curioeity 

dow"  ^e  f^l7v,'"°^-  "««  Po'li"*  the  bell.  Martin  .t.™d 
if.  *  Ju    .  *'  '.'"'"*''  ""•newhere  in  the  dim  golden  liirhtTf 

hTM^r  r^--  "  "  - -=z-h^ 

Th.  ~i'    •  ^°"**'  ^"  passionate  devotion  to  his  father 

The  religious  ceremoniea  of  his  younjr  davs  h.rl  ™.J.  fci  iJ" 
conscious  and  introspective  and,  ahhough  durin/hU  yea^^bJ^^; 
he  had  felt  on  many  occasions  that  he  was  c^mpleteljf.^  f^om 

rid  himself  of  the  conviction  that  he  was  "set  aaiH."  h„ 

Mat  ^%:n-sc:rl-i  11  [i£^^  i 

some  Power  ,.ving  to  him:  "  I  marked  youTt  fo    m^'J^i'^thl 
beginning  and  you  can't  escape  me.    Tou  may  strugrie  asTou  like 

5^    aTb^^tnllS  deT  '"''L"""  to'dust  ryo'uVhLd  ^ 
ne  came  back  to  England  determined  to  asgert  hi,  independence. 


82  THE  CAPTIVES 

tJ^L'"/*^  °'"'  ;*„*'"  "'"'''"y  "^  0«'ri«''  Street  with  tha  ta- 
.^tVn  '°™.«'»"''°«V"»  "  Sfnd  .nd  Deliver!  "  ATom  Z 
rtreet  had  to  give  for  the  moment  wu  a  bi.hop  and  m  ictor 
£^r.?'"i*'*  "V.  ?'  *^  ^'"''"^  Club,  «.  old  lad,  wUh"  black 

iZtr  C;:^,'  "^;i'*'  '/"!■*  ""»  '»  •  hurry  and  ,faiu« 
■elling  bootlacei.     None  of  them  could  be  expected  to  offer  re- 

obaerver,  had  ,uch  a  atranger  to  Garrick  Street  been  present  miiht 

not  entirely  veil  the  worned  uncertain  glance  that  flashed  for  a 

The  door  opened^  a  girl  looked  for  a  men,  t  into  the  atieet. 
be  paaaed  in.ide.  Having  .tumbled  up  the  d.  .  .tair.  puahri  b^k 
Uieir  private  entrance,  hung  up  hi.  coat  in  •.,  li.tle  h"  1  with  . 
deliberate  effort  he  shook  off  the  .uspicioL  that  had  during  the 
U-t^moment..  troubled  him  and  prepared  to  meet  h".:^"^  and 

BecauM  he  had  a  happy,  eaiy  and  affectionate  temperament 
•baence  always  gilded  hi.  friends  with  gifts  and  qualities  t^atThe"' 
pr»ence  only  too  often  denied.    His  years  abroad  had  given  h  ma 

hidX/dv'V'"''^J  '"i  t'"  """  *•>"  ^o-  "eeks  of  hTs  „t™ 
had  lUready  dimmed  and  obscured.  His  mother's  weekly  lette" 
had,  dunng  ten  long  years,  built  up  an   image  of  her  a.  th^ 

h "Tn  fd  u'fh^  "■"  ^"l'^-  /*  '""'  """y'-  »--  .child  s^n 
bL  tith  W.f^  way-his  deep  and  permanent  relation,  had 
been  with  his  fathei-but  those  letter.,  of  which  he  had  now  a 

ti^  of  h.""TK  '  tl'^  ""*•  «"*  "»  »  "o"  charSng  pic 
ture  of  her.  They  had  not  been  clever  nor  deep  nor  indeed  vot 
interesting,  but  they  had  been  affectionate  and  tender  wah^U  Z 
KTfil*'"  *^"  *"  '*  ^^em^^  sitting  i^  ^flace  ct 

he^^w'no/^  "^""."^  home  life  he  wa.  compelled  to  confcM  that 
he  did  not  in  the  least  understand  hi.  mother.     His  intuition. 

ffi.  Z^  ""  ""'r  ^'"'\,  °*  '  "'y  P«»*t™ting  character 
Hi.  mother  appeared  to  all  her  world  a.  a  "sweet  old  lady" 

wnat  she  really  wa..  He  had  wen  her  o  d  hands  tremble  with 
suppr«sed  temper  on  the  very  day  after  hi.  arrival  ;Te  had  Zl 
her  old  hp.  white  with  anger  becauM  the  maid  had  brought  Ter 
the  wrong  shawL    Old  ladie.  must  of  courw  have  the"  fanct 

was  quite  beyond  his  powers  of  penetration.  It  might  of  cour» 
have  something  to  do   with  her  attachment  to  hi.  father.    T 


THE  WABL0CK8 


might  h.Te  been  Pcrh.M  i„  the  fl«t  n^     ""k'  'f '"*^*'  "*"■     Thit 
did  not  want  "  to  be  Mbered  ,7,?    n  .*?  *"  •""  ""^  <»«i'e-.he 

perhap.  «>  .ure  now  that  it  w..  .11  °  "PO"  her:  the  waa  not 
"ight  be.  a  closer  alliance  wT?h  hL  ^u^L  ^*"'  ""♦«!•  " 
becanae  .he  had  once  Aj"ted  th.  .^'  "^'"5  "'"'  '■''»''''  "o'  ""ava 
know;  he  was  awaw  thTthll  ^•'"*  °*  "■  ^f"""  did  not 
houae  that  he  did  n^t  fathom  aZ  V"-'/"i  """'f  °°  '"  '^ 
•n  alliance  between  hi,  moth^  .nTl-  -".""i  "•"*'•  ^here  wa. 
he  could  «^he  did  not  ^HkLXV"''/''^.  ""^  •«""'«.  » 
on  dislike  and  fear  of  hfrnsetf  '  ""  ^'""'^"^  "^^  "•Wly 

How  fanta.tio  them  theorie.  of  firr  .-j 
•mused  himwlf  by  con.ider?^  7n  .       ^  ^'^"^  """•»  •^■».  he 
only  from  the  ouf.ir    Sh T^'a  °  it^^n;?  f"  '"'^T  •""  '"°"»' 
little  pink  and  white  chintz  irw.-nl  ^   ^'l  ?»  "'"V"  in  her 
•nd  a  canarsr  singing  in  a  caJel-SI^?''  *.'',"«'"  «'»  buying 
the  house  was  ugi;  and  st«nX  ,!^'  1 1*"*  T'"*'""'-    ^he  rest  of 
lock,  had  merely  pitched  thdfwsf'n'''''''^"  *'""'«''  '^  ^^^ 
forward  to-morrow  but^i7Mt,l!f!L     ",'  "'«'"  ""^  "««  movin* 
«..et  biscuits  u'llve    b»  "^^^  SlToe^T"'"?  "'■  ""*  "^ 
on  a  little  table  near  the  old   IdJ?^vK  •.'*^  ''"'""»  '°  ''  "tood 
it.  canary,  and  it.  he.^'  and  .ofti;  T-  "V'*^  "'"^  '"'♦.in,, 
enclosed,  dedicated  to  t7e  world  KWv"''  '"  '"f"  '  P"'" 
of  comfort.  '         ™'"  "y  »  remoiMlew  .pirit 

Mrs.  Warlock  waa  only  sixtv  tm~  „* 
number  of  years  ago,  dw^ar^  S,^t?"  °*  *^^  '*''*  "*•  had,  . 
unless  she  drore  on  a  Tety  fi^  .ft^l"  ,'5:''''<'' ""-^  "<"  never, 
.he  we.^  truly  an  invaHTn^odv  C™°'  I  '  '^'  •"""«■    ^^*^ 
most  heaUhy  appearance  wfthW.h^n'-  'J'PT"'*^  ''''ainly  . 
hair,  her  firm  boTom  ris  „g  a„5  /a  ife^'"*!''''  ^',  ■'""■''^•*« 
beneath  the  tight  and  shining  black  sinTthet""^  ^".''  '^^'"^ 
bright  eyes  like  shining  glass    sZJl    ""«' ^""^  '*•  •>*'  «'eM 
covered  with  the  chin^  0     he  cuAainTInd^fin'::,''  "^T  ?"-«»»« 
lows  of  pink  .ilk.    A  white  filmv  .k     1     ^  ^""^  "'"'  P'"mp  pU- 
.t  her  throat  wa.  «  IHt  e  Wg^hrco^^.rhTrl,"".''"  '"^• 
amazingly,  to  the  innocent  chaJmTv.i''"*  ■""  *«*  «""«d, 
hair,  crinkled  and  ar?a^  IsZu^  l     "^  "^^    O"  •"«'  ^"te 
quite  a  wig  but  still  apart  from  tSf^tTh'^'ilL''""."""*'  ""» 
lace  cap.    She  was  fond  of  kn^ttin^^  .^      }"  '"^-  ''«'  "o"  « 
forters  and  underclothfng  f„'  he  ehildren "f/ 1"™  "'""*"  """- 
™.ely  fond  of  convUiotS'^S  ltSJ^^:i 


84 


THB  CAPTIVES 


Bnt  ibore  til  wm  ib*  fond  of  ntins.  Thii  oorttouuMi  of  food 
Md  srawn  on  her  at  her  yran  had  inoiciMd.  Tbo  thoucht  of 
foodi  of  Tirioui  kiad(  fiUad  many  houn  of  her  day,  and  Um  deairo 
for  pleaaant  thingi  to  eat  waa  the  motive  of  many  of  her  moat  da- 
liberata  actiona.  She  cberiahad  warmly  and  aecretly  thU  little  luat 
of  here.  None  of  the  family  waa  aware  of  the  grip  that  the  doaira 
had  upon  her  nor  of  the  apeed  with  which  the  dnire  waa  growing. 
She  did  not  aik  directly  for  the  thinga  that  «he  liked,  but 
manauTred  with  little  plott  and  intriguea  to  obtain  them.  The 
cook  in  the  Warlock  bouiehold  bad  neither  art  nor  acience  at  ber 
diapoaal,  but  at  it  happened  old  Mra.  Warlock  luated  after  rery 
aimple  tbinga.  She  loved  rioe-puddlng;  ber  heart  beat  faat  in  her 
bieaat  when  abe  thought  of  the  brown  crinkly  akin  of  the  rich 
warm  milk  of  a  true  rice-pudding;  alto  abe  loved  hot  buttered 
toaat,  very  buttery  ao  that  it  aoaked  your  finger*;  alio  beef-iteak 
pudding  with  gravy  rich  and  dark  and  ita  white  covering  thick 
and  heavy;  she  also  loved  hot  and  tweet  tea  and  the  little  cakea 
that  Amy  sometimes  bought,  red  and  yellow  and  pink,  held  in  white 
paper-alao  plum-pudding,  which,  alas  I  only  came  at  Christmaa- 
time  and  wedding-cake,  which  scarcely  ever  came  at  all. 

Thie  vice,  of  which  she  was  almost  triumphantly  conscious  as 
though  It  were  a  proof  of  ber  enduring  vitality,  she  clutched 
eagerly  to  herself.  She  did  not  wish  that  any  human  being  should 
perceive  it.  Of  h*r  husband  she  was  not  afraid— it  would  never 
possibly  occur  to  him  that  food  was  of  importance  to  any  one- 
Amy  might  discover  what  she  pleased,  abe  waa  in  strong  alliance 
with  her  mother  and  would  never  betray  her. 

Her  fear  was  of  Martin.  She  feared  very  deeply  hia  influence 
upon  ber  husband.  During  Martin's  absence  she  and  Amy  bad 
managed  very  successfully  to  have  the  bouae  as  they  wiehed  it; 
John  Warlock,  the  master,  had  been  too  deeply  occupied  with  the 
affairs  of  the  soul  to  be  concerned  also  with  the  affairs  of  the 
body. 

She  had,  she  believed,  exercised  an  increasing  influence  over 
him.  She  had  always  loved  him  with  a  fierce  and  selfish  love,  but 
now,  when  he  was  nearly  seventy,  and  to  both  of  'hem  only  a  few 
yeara  of  earthly  ambition  could  remain,  she  derired,  with  all  the 
urgent  ferocity  of  a  human  being  through  whose  fingers  the  last 
sands  of  bis  opportunity  are  slipping,  to  seize  and  hold  and  have 
him  entirely  hers.  He  had  always  eluded  ber;  although  he  had 
once  certainly  loved  her  with,  at  any  rate,  a  aemblance  of  earthly 
passion,  his  spiritual  life  had  always  come  between  them,  holding 
him  from  her,  helping  him  to  etcaps  when  be  pleased,  tantaliaing. 


THE  WARLOCKS  86 

•n  dd  h..th.n,  for  h*r,df  •!>.  believed  in  nrtW^  but  her  „l^u 

at.",  t""'  '"'^  'X""* ""  °'^"  th.«*";i;r^ 

&  .nd  J^"-    i  •  «  '  "'""'"  "'   *''™  dc^ead  upon  -he 

Sr!!     u^!!r°\"''  '*  •  **"     ••"*  '«»«"•  aod  deliver  judgment* 

rfie  only  hoped  th.t  ihe  would  be  deed  before  then.         '"'*™'''' 

Jleenwhile  ehe  ,nd  Amjr  h«d,  undoubtedly,  during  then  hit 

-^.Vt'    u        "u'!"'  '""'  »•*'  •"'J  »«i«ker-he  bed  htdTrotble 

Wyj^an  to  count  upon  her  triumph.     Then  cme  Martini 

She  hid  forgotten  Mertln.    It  ii  true  thit  the  had  written  t„ 

much  M„.  Smith    .      .    No,  we've  not  he«d  fron.  MartiS  row 

hJ  ri-.™°i!.?'i!i'  ^^'l'^  ^'^  ""  ~»1  «*•«  i°  hi.  life;  he 
Sfi,  T!f!  •t'.??'*^  *?  •■"  ^'"'"i  ""  ""  'he  .  woman  who 

•n  opportunity  for  further  decoration.     Since  his  return  it  had 

S^  he";  huT.'n'^'.h"'";    '."  r'  """""*  •'«'  ■>"»  -^h"   power 
Martin  ™^«.ilt  ^"T?*  "^  disappear.    Martin  wa.  home  again. 

Martin  must  do   thi..     She  had  seen   before   in   earlier  dam 

!StfZ;^  '■"  •  "'S?'"'''  """'"'  '•»''  "  '"  «u,ed  There  wH 
wmething  now  m  hi.  reception  of  their  eon  that  terrified  h" 

inr!L        V    u  i  °"\'  '"•°™  '""'  *»  «PProach  him.    She  wa. 

Z  w™M  1,  J"'  ■""  ""r  "''t  *"  «"*"  '■""  W"  life  although 
die  would  have  done  anything  that  he  desired  of  her.    What  she 

i"e  h."f '1  t^l"  '^'^'"^y  y'""  "hen,  as  a  little  ugVy  gH 

lo^'..r»  "••'"  w^om   his  intimacy  with  God,  his  marvel- 

aU  hi.  ™  w""""".:  '"'v'*?  ^"  "■**  *'"''"?»  'hen  she  had  kno4n 
all  his  weaknesses,  how  he  had  slipped  away  to  a  music-hall  whm 
he  wa.  only  fourteen  and  wnoked  and  drank  there,  how  he  hS 


MICROCOTY    MSOlUriON    TEST    CHAUT 

lANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No   2) 


l,\J  ISO      "^  R^ 


2.2 

i£     III  2,0 


\J_       .^    -     III 
"       '"         lllll^ 

IM  114     i  1.6 


^     APPLIED  IM/V3E     In 


86  THE  CAPTIVES 

laughed  at  Mr.  Thurston's  dropping  of  his  "  h's  "  or  at  Mis*  Avies' 
prayer  meetings!  No  one  ever  knew  what  in  those  years  she  had 
thought  of  her  brother.  Then,  after  Martin  had  flung  it  all  away 
and  escaped  abroad,  she  had  begun,  slowly,  painfully,  but  with 
dogged  persistence,  to  make  herself  indispensable  to  her  father; 
Martin  she  had  put  out  of  her  mind.  He  would  never  return,  or, 
at  least,  the  interval  of  his  departure  should  havi  been  severe 
enough  to  separh.    ^im  for  ever  from  his  father.    .   .    . 

In  a  moment's  glance,  in  a  clasp  of  the  hand,  in  a  flash  of  the 
eye,  she  had  seen  that  love  leap  up  in  her  father's  heart  as  strong 
as  ever  it  had  been.  Every  day  of  Martin's  residence  in  the  house 
had  added  fire  to  that  love.  She  was  a  good  woman;  she  struggled 
hard  to  beat  down  her  jealousy.  She  prayed.  She  lay  for  hours 
at  night  struggling  with  her  sins.  If  Martin  had  been  worthy, 
if  he  had  shown  love  in  return,  but,  from  the  bottom  of  her  soul, 
as  the  days  increased  she  despised  him — despised  him  for  his  light 
heart,  his  care  of  worldly  things,  his  utter  lack  of  comprehension 
of  their  father,  his  scorn,  even  now  but  badly  concealed,  of  all  the 
sanctities  that  she  had  in  reverence. 

Therefore  she  drew  near  to  her  mother  and  the  two  of  them 
watched  and  waited.    .   .    . 

His  mother  was  knitting.  She  lifted  to  him  her  pink  wrinkled 
face  and,  her  spectacles  balanced  on  the  end  of  her  nose,  smiled 
the  smile  of  the  dearest  old  lady  in  the  world. 

"  Well,  dear,  and  have  you  had  a  pleasant  day?" 

"  All  right,  mother,  thank  you.  Funny  thing;  met  a  man  in 
tha  street,  hadn't  seen  for  five  years.  Saw  him  last  in  Eio — 
Funny  thing.  Well,  we  lunched  together.  Not  a  bad  fellow- 
Seen  a  thing  or  two,  he  has." 

Mrs.  Warlock  counted  her  stitches.  "  Fourteen,  fifteen,  sixteen. 
.   .   .    How  nice  for  you,  dear.    What  was  his  name!" 

"Thompson  ...  I  say,"  Martin  suddenly  raised  his  head 
as  though  he  heard  something.  "  where's  Amy  ? " 

"  Changing.  She's  been  paying  a  call  on  the  Miss  Cardinals. 
Thought  it  would  be  polite  because  of  the  new  niece. — Six,  seven, 
eight  and  nine.    ..." 

"  What  did  she  think  of  her! " 

"Of  whom,  dear!" 

"  Of  the  niece." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  she  liked  her  very  much.  She  said  that 
she  was  plain  and  silent — and  looked  cross.  Amy  thought." 

"  Oh  yes.  Amy  would."  His  face,  as  was  his  way  when  he  was 
Tcxed,  flushed  very  slowly,  the  deeper  red  rising  through  the  red- 


THE  WARLOCKS  87 

brown  until,  ceasing  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead,  it  left  a  w"  ita 
line  beneath  his  hair.    "  She  isn't  cross  a  bit." 

"  I  don't  know,  dear.  It  isn't  my  opinion.  I  only  tell  you  what 
Amy  said.  People  here  don't  seem  to  like  her.  Mrs.  Smith  was 
telling  me  yesterday  that  she's  so  difficult  to  talk  to  and  seems  to 
know  nothing  about  anything,  poor  girl." 

«  A^"'  ,^'"'"''"    He  """>8  his  body  on  his  hips  indignantly. 
A  lot  she  knows  about  anything!    I  hate  that  woman  and  her 
chattering  daughter." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure;  Mrs.  Smith  always  seems  to 
me  Tcry  kind." 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  he  had  suddenly  remembered  some- 
thing. 

"I  say— is  it  true  what  Amy  says,  ibat  I  woke  you  up  this 
morning  when  I  went  out  by  banging  my  door!" 

"I'm  sure  you  didn't.— Amy  shouldn't  say  such  things.  And 
If  you  did  what  does  it  matter?  I  sleep  so  badly  that  half  an 
hour  more  or  less  makes  very  little  difference." 

"Well,  she  says  so—"  He  went  on,  dropping  his  voice:  "I 
say  mother,  what's  the  matter  with  Amy?  Why's  she  so  sick  with 
me!    I  haven't  done  anything  to  offend  her,  have  I? " 

"  Of  course  not.  What  a  silly  boy  you  are,  Martin  I  Nine,  ten, 
eleven.  .  .  There!  that's  enough  for  this  evening.  I'll  finish 
It  in  another  day.  You  mustn't  mind  Amy,  Martin.  She  isn't 
always  very  well." 

The  door  opened  and  Amy  came  in.  She  was  a  tall  gaunt  woman 
who  looked  a  great  deal  older  than  her  brother.  She  did  not  make 
the  best  of  herself  brushing  her  thin  black  hair  straight  back 
from  her  bony  forehead.  She  had  a  habit  of  half  closing  her  eyes 
when  she  peered  at  some  one  as  though  she  could  not  see.  She 
should,  long  ago,  have  worn  spectacles,  but  from  some  strange  half- 
conscious  vanity  had  always  refused  to  do  so.  Eveiy  year  her  sight 
grew  worse.  She  was  wearing  now  a  dress  of  black  silk,  very  badly 
made,  cut  to  display  her  long  skinny  neck  and  bony  shoulders, 
bhe  wore  her  clothes  as  though  she  struggled  between  a  disdain 
for  such  vanities  and  a  desire  to  appear  attractive.  Her  manner 
of  twisting  her  eyelids  and  wrinkling  her  nose  gave  her  a  peevish 
expression,  but  behind  that,  there  was  a  hint  of  pathos,  a  half- 
seen  glimpse  of  a  soul  that  desired  friendship  and  affection.  She 
was  veiy  tall  and  there  was  something  masculine  in  the  long 
angulan^  of  her  imbs.  She  offered  a  strange  contrast  to  the 
broad  and  ruddy  Martm.  There  was,  however,  something  in  the 
eyes  of  each— some  sudden  surprised  almost  visionary  flash  that 


m 


88 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I 


came  and  went  that  showed  them  to  be  the  children  of  the  l 

father.  To  Mrs.  Warlock  they  bore  no  resemblance  whaterar. 
Amy  stopped  when  she  saw  her  brother  as  though  she  had  not 
expected  him  to  be  there. 

"  Well,  Martin,"  she  said— then  came  forward  and  sat  in  a  chair 
01  posite  her  mother. 

"  Mr.  Thurston's  coming  to  supper,"  she  said. 

Martin  frowned.    "  Oh,  hang  it,  what  for? "  he  cried. 

"  He's  taking  me  to  Miss  Avies'  Bible  meeting."  Amy  answered 
coldly.  "What  a  baby  you  are  about  people,  Martin.  I  should 
have  thought  all  your  livinfr  abroad  so  much  would  have  made  you 
understanding.  But  you're  like  the  rest.  You  must  have  every 
one  cut  to  the  same  pattern." 

Martin  looked  up  for  a  moment  as  though  he  would  answer 
angrily;  then  he  controlled  himself  ar  1  raid,  laughing:  "I  sup- 
pose I  have  my  prejudices  like  every  one  else.  I  daresay  Thurs- 
ton's a  very  good  sort  of  fellow,  but  we  don't  like  one  another, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it.  Everybody  can't  like  everybody.  Amy — 
why,  even  you  don't  like  every  one." 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  answered  shortly. 

She  looked  for  an  instant  at  her  mother.  Martin  caught  the 
glance  that  passed  between  them,  end  suddenly  the  discomfort  of 
which  he  had  been  aware  as  he  stood,  half  an  hour  before,  in  the 
street,  returned  to  him  with  redoubled  force.  What  was  the  matter 
with  everybody?    What  had  he  done? 

"Well,  I'll  go  and  change,"  he  said. 

"  Dinner  will  be  ready  in  ten  minutes,  dear,"  said  his  mother. 

"  I'll  be  in  time  all  right,"  he  said. 

At  the  door  he  almost  ran  into  Mr.  Thurston.  This  gentleman 
had  been  described,  on  some  earlier  occasion,  by  an  unfriendly 
observer  as  "the  Suburban  Savonarola."  He  was  tall  and  ex- 
tremely thin  with  a  bony  pointed  face  that  was  in  some  lights 
grey  and  in  others  white.  He  had  the  excited  staring  eyes  of  a 
fanatic,  and  his  hair,  now  very  scanty,  was  plastered  iver  his 
head  in  black  shining  streaks.  He  wore  a  rather  fade>.  k  suit, 
a  white  low  collar  and  a  white  bow  tie.  He  had  a  ha.  at  mo- 
ments of  stress,  of  cracking  his  fingers.  He  had  a  very  pronounced 
cockney  accent  when  he  was  excited,  at  other  times  he  struggled 
against  this  with  some  success. 

He  passed  from  brooding  silences  into  sudden  bursts  of  dec- 
lamation with  such  abruptness  that  strangers  thought  him  very 
eloquent.  When  he  was  excited  the  colour  ran  into  his  nose  as 
though  he  had  been  drinking,  and  often  his  ears  were  red.    Hia 


THIS  WASLOCES  89 

hirto^  wti  simple.    The  ,on  of  a  nwJl  draper  in  8tr.,th.m,  he 

cjUedH.rper  When  after  eome  si.  yean  of  eucceseful  enterpriee 
Jlr.   Harper  had  been   imprisoned  for  forgery,  youne  William 

Hor:°Ti;'  '«'»''«',•'''-««  to  .  Christin^Sci^rChZ  t 
Horton  Then,  somewhere  about  1897,  he  had  met  Miss  Ariw  at  a 
ileyiTalist  Meeting  i„  the  Albert  H.U  and,  fasci-^fted  b"  heJ 
ardent  .pint,  transferred  hi.  services  to  the  Kingscote  Brethren 

ri,.L  ■.'""'  T°  *"  ?  '^'''*''"'  °^  8™»'  importance  in  the 
Chapel;  ,t  was  known  that  he  disagreed  profoundly  with  his 
leader  on  some  vital  queetions,  and  it  was  thought  that  he  might 

.nj  ^     J?  "^  exceptional  energies  and  gifts  of  exhortation 

and  invective  not  to  be  despised.  Martin  politely  wished  him 
'Good  evening''  and  escaped  to  his  room. 

»,,•.,.„!  ''^'■°''^  hi' elothes  he  tried  to  translate  into  definite  fact, 
his  vague  discomfort  One,  he  hated  that  .wine  Thurston.  Two, 
Amy  was  vexed  with  him  (What  strange  impossible  creature. 
Tn T.r."^'^-  ^^i!;^-'"',!''^  *"  *'"'  »<»'  important  of  Sem 
?iU"H  ,1      ™""^  W°  ''''°-    ^0  '™'"'  ^^'y  '«"  'hat  this 

He  d^^H^^/TiT*  j"  ^'"?  f"  """*  ''''  «"""  f'o-"  abroad. 
Hedreaded  it.    Oh!  he  dreaded  it  most  horribly  i 

He  loved  hi.  father  but  with  a  love  that  had"  in  it  elements  of 

fear,   timidity,   every   possible   «)rt  of  awkwardness.     Moreover 

of  fZ^^fi  t'  .  r  "?"'  *]""  *"*  ■'"y  "hen  as  a  tiny  child 
of  four  or  five  he  had  awakened  to  behold  th«t  figure,  enormous  in 
a  long  night-  rt,  summoning  God  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
Thl'^T'}-  \1'^^T^  fantastic  shadows  on  to  the  wall  behind 
^;,rf    .1J"'  1?**"  ^"^  "  P""y  in   his  father's  hands. 

Againrt  other  men  he  could  .tand  up;  against  that  strange  com- 
pa^  of  fears,  affections,  superstitions,  shadowy  terrors,  dim  ex- 
pectations that  his  father  presented  to  him  he  could  do  nothing. 
♦1.  .1  *  *  conversation  had  to  come  some  time.  He  must  show 
that  he  was  a  man  now,  moulded  by  the  world  with  his  own  beliefs 
purposes,  resolves.  But  if  he  did  not  love  him,  how  much  easier 
It  would  be! 

When  he  went  downstairs  he  found  the  old  man  in  the  little 
pink  drawing-room-he  looked  tired  and  worn.  Martin  remem- 
bered  with  alarm  the  things  that  he  had  heard  recently  about  his 
f atlier's  heart.  He  glanced  up  and  the  older  man's  hand  fastened 
on  his  shoulder;  they  stood  there  side  by  side.  After  a  few  min- 
utes they  all  went  in  to  supper. 

Mr.  Thurston's  nose  was  flushed  with  the  succrss  of  the  mission 


90 


THE  CAPTIVES 


from  which  he  had  just  returned.  He  Lad  been  one  of  a  nmnber 
whose  aim  it  had  been  during  the  preceding  week  to  bring  light 
and  happiness  into  the  lives  of  the  inLabitants  of  Putney.  They 
had  been  obviously  appreciated,  as  the  collection  for  the  week  had 
amounted  to  between  seventy  and  eighty  pounds.  A  proper  share 
of  this  fine  result  Mr.  Thurston  naturally  appropriated  to  his  own 
effortH.  His  long  tapering  fingers  were  not  so  clean  as  they  might 
have  been,  but  this  did  not  prevent  him  from  waving  them  in  the 
ail  and  pointing  them  at  imaginary  Putney  citizens  whom  he 
evoked  in  support  of  his  statements. 

"  We  'ad  a  reelly  thumpin'  meeting  on  Thursday — Town  Hall — 
One  for  the  women  in  the  small  'all  hand  one  for  the  men  in  the 
Uain  Hall.  Almost  no  opposition  you  might  say,  and  when  it 
came  to  the  Hymn  singing  it  fairly  took  the  roof  off.  A  lot  of  'em 
stopped  afterwards — one  lad  of  eighteen  or  so  is  coming  over 
to  us  'ere.  Butcher's  apprentice.  Says  'e's  felt  the  Lord  pressing 
him  a  long  way  back  but  the  flesh  held  him.  Might  work  him  up 
into  a  very  useful  lad  with  the  Lord's  help.  Thank  you,  Mr». 
Warlock,  I  will  try  a  bit  more  of  that  cold  beef  if  you  don'l  mind. 
Pretty  place.  Putney.  Ever  been  there,  Mr.  Warlock  I  Ah,  you 
should  go — " 

Amy  Warlock  listened  with  the  greatest  interest;  otherwise, 
it  must  be  confessed,  Mr.  Thurston's  audience  was  somewhat  in- 
attentive. Mr.  Warlock's  mind  was  obviously  elsewhere ;  he  passed 
his  hand  through  his  beard,  his  eyes  staring  at  the  table-cloth. 
Mr.  Thurston,  noticing  this,  tried  another  topic. 

"What  'ave  jou  1  ;ard,  Mrs.  Warlock,  about  the  new  Miss 
Cardinal!    I  'aven't  seen  her  yet  myself." 

Mrs.  Warlock,  who  had  just  given  herself  a  little  piece  of  beef, 
some  potato  and  some  spinach,  and  was  arranging  these  delicacies 
with  the  greatest  care  upon  her  plate,  just  smiled  without  raising 
her  eyes.    Amy  answered — 

"  I've  seen  her.  I  was  there  this  afternoon.  I  can't  say  that  I 
found  her  very  interesting.  Plain — ugly  in  fact.  She  never 
opened  her  mouth  all  the  afternoon.  Caroline  Smith  tells  me  that 
she  knows  nothing  at  all,  seen  nothing,  been  nowhere.  Bad- 
tempered  I  should  think." 

"  Dear,  dear,"  said  Mr.  Thurston  with  a  gratified  sigh.  "  is  it  so 
reelly?" 

Martin  looked  across  at  his  sister  indignantly.  "Tiuat  one 
woman  about  another,"  he  said.  "  Just  because  she  doesn't  shatter 
like  a  magpie  you  concluded  she's  got  nothing  to  say.  It'i  even 
conceivable  that  she  found  you  dull,  Amy." 


THE  WARLOCKS  91 

Amy  looked  at  him  with  a  strange  penetrating  glance  that  in 
some  undefined  way  increased  his  irritation.  "  It's  quite  possible." 
ahe  said  quietly.  "But  1  don't  think  eren  you,  Martin,  can  call 
her  handsome.  As  to  her  intelligence,  ahe  never  gave  me  a  chance 
oz  juLiging." 

irl'I"^  w?  **■,«"  f"*™'  ti"","  said  Martin  hotly.  "  I  like  her 
immensely^"  He  felt  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken  that  it  had  been 
a  fool.sh  thmg  to  say.  He  saw  Mr.  Thurston  smile.  Ir  the  pause 
that  followed  he  felt  as  though  he  !  ad  with  a  gesture  of  the  hand 
flung  a  stone  mto  a  pool  of  chatter  and  senndol   whose  ripples 

wL  sister  ''  '™*~'-    ^'  **"'  """"""«  ^  ^»*'J 

I' I  didn't  know  you  knew  het  so  well,  dear,"  said  his  mother. 

I  don  t  know  her"  he  said,  "  I've  only  seen  her  three  times. 

But   she  ought   to    be   given    her   chance.     It    can't    be   much 

il^  ftl  ,j°"!'"*.  ^"''    "■•'"^    *'•«    '""'"'»    no    one-after 

h«  father  suddenly  dymg.      [   believe  she  was  all  alone   with 

h.^.J'"'^  expected  his  father  to  defend  her.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  apparently  hked  her.  But  his  father  said  nothing.  There 
ThL?„  l^'^u-"!  "I^'n'ort'l'le  pause.  After  supper  Mr. 
Thurston  rubbed  his  hands,  helped  Amy  Warlock  into  heV  cloak 
said  to  the  company  in  general: 
"Good  night.     Should  be  a  very  full  meeting  to-night.    . 

Tm  sure*"'    '   '   '  '"'"  *"  ^"^  ''''"'''*''•  ^"-  ^"^'X'^' 

The  door  was  closed,  Mrs.  Warlock  retired  into  her  bedroom;  the 

house  was  left  to  Martin  and  his  father.  "^room,  tne 

Mr.  Warlock's  room  was  hideous.     It  opened,  somewhat  imt, 

really,  out  of  Mrs.  Warlock's  pink  drawing-^o^  A  hu^  td  ex- 

^^"jy^  American  roll-top  dc»k  took  up  much  of  the  room. 

There  were  bookshelves  into  which  books  had  been  piled     Com- 

'^2T7  U  "r  ^"''''  ™'"'""  ■'*  '«™''-'  Pamphfets  tattered 
T^rel  rf'T^"""'"''"'--  ^  *>"«  ^«^«'  '"'P'-'y^  holes 
fnl?,"^  J  ?  '■"'"^'^^  ""'  »""  "'"'  dirty  pieces  of  paper 
and  untidy  shavings.  In  the  midst  of  this  disorder  there  hung  ov^r 
the  mantelpiece,  against  the  faded  grey  wall-paper,  a  fine  copy  of 

J»L  ?l\  J  ■T''  "■'"'  ''■"".^'"^  ■'"'""'^  "PO"  the  picture's  sur 
face  It  had  been  given  to  John  Warlock  many  years  before  bv 
an  old  lady  who  heard  him  preach  and  had  been  for  Tw^k  con' 
noor  an/V°"  '"^f  7'"'  ^^at  she  should  give  her  wealtrtoX 
poor  and  fling  aside  her  passion  for  Musical  Comedy,  left  ton 


■I  ill 


masa 


92  THE  CAPTIVES 

with  Indignation.    The  picture  had  remained;  it  hung  then  now 
crooked  on  it*  cord. 

John  Warloclc  wa«  unconKious  of  the  dust  and  disorder  that 
surrounded  him.  His  own  passion  for  personal  cleanliness  sprang 
from  the  early  days  with  his  father,  to  whom  boc'ily  cleanliness 
had  been  part  of  a  fanatical  mysticism.  Partly  abo  by  reason  of 
that  early  training,  sloth,  drunkenness,  immorality,  had  no  power 
over  him.  And  of  the  whole  actual  world  that  surrounded  him  he 
was  very  little  conscious  except  that  he  hated  towns  and  longed 
always  for  air  and  space. 

So  that  the  windows  were  open  one  room  was  to  him  as 
another. 

He  had  often,  during  his  woik  with  the  members  of  bis  com- 
munity, been  conscious  of  his  ignorance  of  the  im  lulsee  and 
powers  that  went  up  to  make  the  ordinary  sensual  physical  life 
of  the  normal  man.  His  own  troubles,  trials,  failures  were  so 
utterly  of  another  kind  that  in  this  other  world  his  imagination 
refused  to  aid  him.  This  had  often  deeply  distressed  him  and 
made  him  timid  and  shy  in  his  dealings  with  men  and  women. 
It  was  this,  more  than  anything  else,  that  held  him  back  from  the 
ambition  to  proselytise.  How  could  he  go  forth  and  challenge 
inen's  souls  when  he  could  not  understand  nor  feel  their  difficul- 
ties? More  and  more  as  his  years  advanced  had  he  retired  into 
himself,  into  his  own  mystical  world  of  communion  with  a  God 
who  drew  ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  him.  Ho  humbled  himself 
before  men;  he  did  not  believe  himself  better  than  they  because  he 
had  not  yielded  to  their  temptations;  but  he  could  not  help  them; 
his  tongue  was  tied ;  he  was  a  man  cut  oS  from  his  fellows  and  he 
knew  it. 

He  had  never  felt  so  impatient  of  his  impotence  as  he  did  to- 
night. For  ten  years  he  had  been  waiting  for  this  interview  with 
his  son,  aiitl  now  that  it  was  come  he  was  timid  aid  afraid  as 
though  he  had  been  opposed  by  a  stranger.  He  had  always  known 
that  Martin  would  return.  It  had  been  his  one  worldly  ambition 
and  prayer  to  have  him  at  his  side  again.  When  he  had  thought 
and  dreamt  of  the  time  that  was  coming,  he  had  thought  that  it 
would  be  simple  enough  to  win  the  boy  back  to  the  old  allegiance 
and  faith  to  which  he  had  once  been  bound,  iteanwhile  the  boy 
had  grown  into  a  man ;  here  was  a  new  Martin  deep  in  experiences, 
desires,  ambitions  of  whic>  his  father  could  have  no  perception. 
Even  in  the  moment  that  ho  was  aware  of  the  possibility  of  losing 
his  son  he  was  aware  also  of  the  deep  almost  fanatical  resolve  to 
keep  him,  to  hold  him  at  all  costs. 


THE  WARLOCKS  93 

1. J.''i'.7"  *", \-^  '"*  "'  ^"  "'«''*  ~"'''y  '"••  He  ■ecmed,  .i 
he  Mt  there  lookinK  «eroa>  at  his  boy,  to  chillenge  God  Himwif 
to  take  bim  from  him.    It  w»a  aa  though  he  aaid  ■ 

'  Thia  reward  at  leaat  I  have  a  right  to  ask.  I  demand  it.  .  .  ." 
Martin,  on  his  side,  was  conscious  of  a  profound  discomfort.  He 
had.  increasingly  aa  the  year,  had  passed,  wished  to  take  life  easily 
and  pleasantly.  Suddenly  now  another  world  rose  up  before  hini. 
Yes,  another  world.  He  was  not  fool  enough  to  dismiss  it  simply 
because  It  did  not  resemble  hi.  own.  Moreorer  it  had  been  on« 
nis,  end  this  was  increasingly  bime  in  upon  him.  B^t  it  all 
.ecmed  to  h.m  now  incredibly  old,  childish  and  even  fantastic,  as 

a^oh  tl-  '""^7'"'  •  rr""-  »  """"^  "d  »  boiling  cauldron. 
Such  things  could  not  frighten,  of  course-he  was  no  longer  a 
child-and  yet  because  he  had  once  been  frightened  some  im- 
pression of  alarm  and  dismay  hovered  over  him 

During  all  his  normal  year,  abroad  he  had  forgotten  the  power 
of  superstition,  of  dreams  and  omens;  he  knew  now,  ..  he  faced 
his  father,  that  the  power  wa.  real  enough. 

!l7  \l  ^  ""V*"'  *>  .''""''^  ""*'«d  Btrangely  in  the  fire- 
.•>f  i-  .T"'»«.8""t'»n  '  «wung  a  little  on  it.  cord,  the  colour 
still  •"•8^"nK  at  it.  heart  a.  the  rest  of  the  room  moved  rest- 
lessly  under  the  ebb  and  flow  of  black  shadows.  Then  the  candle 
suddenly  blew  out. 

"  A  lamp  will  be  better,"  said  Mr.  Warlock. 

He  left  the  room  ^d  Martin  sat  there,  in  the  darkness,  haunted 
by  he  knew  not  what  anticipations.  The  light  was  brought,  they 
drew  closer  together  sitting  in  the  little  glosay  pool,  the  room 
pitch  dark  around  them. 

«,"™^*'\^'"^'"'n"i"'  "'•  ^"^"'^  »»i'J-  "I  '»•"  to  hear 
so  many  things.    Our  first  time  together  alone  " 

«lwfr  ""  T  ™'^.  ""'i''''"  "*'^'"  ^"^  *"  'P««k  naturally  and 
carelessly.  "I  wrote  about  most  things  in  my  letters  Prettr 
rotten  letter.  I'm  afraid."     He  laugh«l.  ^ 

I' And  new— what  do  you  intend  to  do  now?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know— Look  around  for  a  bit." 
■  ".Tif  «?»*''"•<"'»  P»"»e-  Then  Mr.  Warlock  began 
again.  When  I  ask  about  your  life,  my  boy.  I  don't  mean  where 
you  ve  lived,  how  you've  earned  your  living-I  do  know  all  that 
-you  ve  been  V..17  good  about  writing.  But  your  real  life,  what 
mve  been  thinking  about  things,  how  you  feel  about  every- 


m 


94 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"  Well,  {tther— I  don't  know.  One  hadn't  much  time  for  think- 
ing, you  know.  No  onu  did  much  thinking  in  Rio.  When  I 
waa  in  the  Bermudaa  there  waa  a  fellow    .   .   ." 

"  Yea,  but  tell  me  about  youraelf." 

Then,  \?ith  a  desperate  effort,  he  broke  out: 

"  Father,  you'll  be  badly  disappointed  in  me.  I're  been  feeling 
it  coming  all  the  time.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  just  like  any  one 
else.  I  want  to  have  a  good  time.  One's  only  young  once.  I'm 
awfully  sorry.  I  want  to  please  you  in  any  way  I  can.  but — but — 
it's  all  gone — all  Jiat  early  part.  It's  simply  one's  childhooO  that's 
finished  with." 

"  And  it  can't  come  back  i  '  his  father  said  quietly. 

"  Never  I "  Martin's  voice  waa  almost  a  cry  aa  though  he  were 
defying  something. 

"  We  are  very  weak  against  God's  will,"  his  father  said,  still 
quietly  as  though  it  were  not  he  that  was  speaking  but  some 
voice  in  the  shadow  behind  him.  "  You  are  not  your  own  master, 
Martin." 

"  I  am  my  own  master,"  Martin  answered  passionately.  "  I  have 
been  "ly  own  master  for  ten  years.  I've  not  done  anything  very  fine 
with  my  life,  I  know.  I'm  just  like  any  one  else — but  I've  found 
my  feet.  I  can  look  after  myself  against  anybody  and  I'm  inde- 
pendent— of  every  one  and  of  everything." 

His  father  drew  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"  Of  course,"  be  said,  "  I  was  not  so  foolish  as  to  expect  that 
you  would  come  back  to  us  just  aa  you  left  us.  I  know  that  you 
must  have  your  own  life — and  be  free — so  much  as  any  of  us  are 
froe  at  all.  ..."  Then  after  a  little  pause.  "  What  are  your 
plana!     What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"  Well,"  answered  Martin,  hesitating,  "  I  haven't  exactly  aettled, 
you  know.  I  might  take  a  small  share  in  some  business,  go  into 
the  City.  Then  at  other  times  I  feel  I  shouldn't  like  being  cooped 
up  in  e  towL'  after  the  life  I've  led.  Sometime^,  this  last  month, 
I've  felt  I  couldn't  breathe.  It's  as  though,  some  days,  all  the 
chimneys  were  going  to  tumble  in.  When  you're  out  on  a  field 
you  know  where  you  are,  don't  you  1  So  I've  thought  it  would  be 
nice  to  have  a  little  farm  somewhere  in  the  South,  Devonshire  or 
Glebeshire.  .  .  .  And  then  I'd  marry  of  course,  a  girl  who'd 
like  that  kind  of  life  and  wouldn't  find  it  dull.  There'd  be  plenty 
of  work — a  healthy  life  for  children  right  away  from  these  towns. 
.  .  ,  Thai's  my  sort  of  idea,  father,  but  of  course  one  doesn't 
knoT.    .   .   ." 

Vartin  trailed  off  into  inconsequent  words.    It  was  as  though 


THE  WARLOCKS 


M 


Ui  (itber  wen  waiting  for  him  to  commit  himtelf  and  would 
then  luddenly  leap  upon  bim  with  "ThersI  Now,  you've  be- 
trayed younelf.    I've  caught  you "  and  he  !,«d  (imply  nothing 

to  betray,  nothing  to  conceal. 

But  anything  was  better  than  theae  pauiea  during  which  the 
tbrtata  and  anticipation!  piled  up  and  up,  making  a  uionatrous 
figure  out  o(  exactly  nothing  at  all. 

It  was  not  enough  to  tell  himself  that  between  every  lather  and 
aon  there  were  restraints  and  hesitations,  a  division  cleft  by  the 
remembrance  of  the  lime  when  one  had  commanded  and  the  other 
obeyed.  There  were  nther  elements  here — for  one  the  element  of 
an  old  affection  that  had  once  been  at  the  very  root  of  the  boy's 
(oul  and  was  now  in  the  strangest  way  creeping  back  to  him.  as 
an  old  familiar,  but  forgotten  form  might  creep  out  of  the  dark 
and  ait  at  his  feet  and  clasp  bis  knees. 

"  Well,"  said  John  Warlock.  "  That'a  very  pleaaant.  You  must 
feel  very  grateful  to  your  aunt  Rachel,  Martin;  she's  given  you 
the  opportunity  of  doing  what  you  like  with  your  life.  She  spoke 
to  me  about  it  before  she  died." 

"  She  apoks  to  you  about  it! " 

"  Tea.  She  told  me  that  si.  8  did  it  because  she  wanted  to  bring 
you  back  to  me.  She  knew  of  my  love  for  you.  We  often  talked 
of  you  together.  She  was  a  faithful  servant  of  Qod.  She  believed 
that  Ood  meant  to  bring  you,  through  her,  back  into  His  arms." 

"I  might  not  have  come,"  Martin  said  with  a  sudden  anger 
that  aurprised  himself.  "  She  made  no  conditions.  I  might  have 
gone  on  with  my  life  there  abroad.  I  am  free  to  lead  my  own  '  .f e 
where  and  how  I  please." 

"  Quite  free."  His  father  ansv.ered  gently.  "  Bjt  ..be  knew  that 
you  would  come.    Of  course  you  are  your  own  master,  Martin " 

"  No,  but  it  must  be  quite  clear,"  Martin  cried,  the  excitement 
rising  in  him  as  he  spoke.  He  leaned  forward  almost  touching 
his  father's  chair.  "  I'm  not  bound  to  any  one  by  this  money. 
It  waa  awfully  jolly  of  Aunt  Rachel.  I'll  never  forget  her— but 
I'm  free.  I  haven't  got  to  say  that  I  believe  things  when  I  don't, 
or  that  I  think  things  that  she  thought  just  because  she  did 
...  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  father,  but  you  know  that  it 
must  have  seemed  to  me  pretty  odd  coming  back  after  all  these 
years  end  finding  you,  all  in  the  same  place,  doing  the  same 
things,  believing  in  the  same  things — just  like  years  ago.  I've 
seen  the  world  a  bit,  I  can  tell  you — Russia,  China,  Japbn,  Amer- 
ica, North  and  South,  Indi>.  You  believe  as  far  as  you  can  see. 
What  are  you  to  think  when,  in  every  country  that  you  come  to. 


m 


96 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Hii  fitbcr  laid  nothinf. 

only  .h.,'.  wbTZl,^t,    .S'tit       ""T'k""''  ?*'^"  ■  • 
pUinlyf  ..."    '  ^  "nt  It   .   .  .    to  bare  it  out  quite 

it  diffl/:?^;'oZ"s  v::^:^^  t"""'-' "«""""'  •»  'cund 
ner.rdSJ^^'„«,«'/H.'t":::'„'":o":  '"^  't  """"  ■""»«'■■ 

I  cnnot  .p..k  ..  „„e  mln' .r.rorherTheAV..?nc:"l°li.'"'" 
Mr,  a  youns  man  who  h.A  i,. i  *»ere  w«a  once,  I  remem- 

n^  woj;..  .ndT^°.o'l''^^r'in";r.r  He  7"  ""'"^  "' 
ning;  he  w..  tempted  to  commit  .  Zrihlll  n.  S  *  j°°/  ""■ 
me  to  ure  him  and  I  eoiiIH  ..A.!.k"         ?'    "®  depended  upon 

alway.  be  .  '.  ZTV^inll^t  r"^  '«  now  upon  me  and  will 
i^-^o  not  let  u.  «n;,,r  C5l  "'"''''  "^  ''•y™'^  even^hing 
.hould  be  frel^buHuy  with^^  "  ^°"  ".""  ^  ^"*-  «•  ^o' 
man;  I  have  long^  or  you  ar^wS^'n^'lK  ""Z  J  '"■  "  "'"^ 
have  longed  for  hi.  .on  Thll  L.  T,.  °l^"  *'"'*''  «■'>  "^^r 
more  yea^  God  ch»S;.  H^'^.iml  °1*'"' J  """""  "i^"  ">"y 
litUe  while  even  thouXl  ^y  ^m  „,?*  "*''  ""i  """"•  ^^  « 
hap.  thing,  will  come  backT  JTu  th  t  ^u'TavTl  '"'"f "    ^"- 

l^rji^utTis^Sntr  'r- '  -v-- "^^  -""- 
.  Httie.  give'!ne',rmTof  l°u^ti::r^i:zzri^  n- "» 


THE  WARLUt'KS 


97 

5i?l"  .^"u*^  "/"  '"J"™  "'  '"''  '•">"'•  "ntence.  .nd  th. 
Md  wmote  from  «l]  ihe  l.f,  and  Kni  rihlc  of  M.rtin'.  r«.e„t  y^.r.. 

giufflT  "  """^ '"  *■'•  ""^  *"°"»  '"'P  "^  "'^ 

•■  Th.f.  .11  right  f.ther  .  .  .  I'm  not  going  whil.  you  w.nl 
now."    •   •    ^•»'  "<*   I  •   •   •    •l»'«y    .  .   .    if.  ju.t  the  ..m. 

pledge  th.t      a,  to  invulvo  h,m  in  far  mor.  t'  u,.  ho  could  ^ 

before  h.m.    Then,  with  a  happy  Mn.e  that  th    so-  .imcntal  part 

iMn„  '"I"""";"  ••''over,  he  began  to  talk  ....ut  all  kind,  of 

T?k     ""•''*,. *•""«'(,  f"  ""d   *ven.  after  a  while,  began  to 

making  up.  He  had  been  hero  .o  long,  with  all  theao  jwful  frump, 
brooding  over  one  idea,  never  getting  away  from  thi.  Religion. 

Martin  began  to  imagine  hi-nwlf  very  cleverly  leading  hi.  father 
into  a  normal  natural  life,  taking  him  ,„  ,oe  thini.,  m,kini 
him  laugh;  it  would  do  hi.  health  a  world  of  good 

Then,  quite    uddenly,  the  old  man  said: 

A^L^Ht  "*"*  ' '"'"  «'"«"''?.'••  ""'^'"'  "'  ">«  »•''  day.  here,  the 
w^  .  J'-i'iV  *"*  ""'"  '"""•  "•■*"  "^  '•««'  '»  Ma.on  Street?  •' 
What  did  Martin  remember?    Ho  remembered  a  goo<l  deal.    He 

wa,  .urprised  when  he  began  to  think.    .   .   .    "Did  he  remem- 

k!L"  ,i.  ;  n-  V\r  ""'^  ^  ,°  """"•  •  day-ye,,  he  remem- 
bered  that.  His  father  conti  d,  a.  though  it  had  been  for  hia 
own  pleasure. 

.i.''.''!i,"*"*'j  '^  '"'""  returaed  with  a  vividnew  and  actuality 
uat  thronged  the  room. 

it.^R»Z"  rp"K?'°"r!""'  "J""  '•'  '"^'''  ■'"'P  •»  the  corner. 
It.  Bath,  and  Public  Library,  the  sudden  little  black  dip.  into  the 
area,  as  the  houses  followcl  one  another,  the  lamp-?o.t  opposite 
their  window  th.t  had  always  excited  him  because  it  leaned  in- 
r*™i'.t  i  t'  ""'"*''  ■'  """'d  prewntly  tumble.  He  remem- 
bered  the  fat  short  cook  with  the  pink  -otton  dress  who  wheezed 
and  blew  so  when  she  had  to  climb  the  stairs.  He  remembered 
the  rooms  that  would  seem  bare  enough  to  him  now,  he  supposed, 
but  were  then  611ed  with  exciting  possibilities-a  little  round  brown 
table,  his  mother  s  work-box  with  mother-of-pearl  shells  upon  the 
cover,  a  stuffed  bird  with  bright  blue  feather,  under  a  glass 
case  a  screen  with  coloured  pictures  of  battles  and  horse,  .-n-l 
elephants  pasted  upon  it  He  remembered  the  exact  sound  that 
the  tinkling  bell  ir.ade  when  it  summoned  them  to  meaU   he  le- 


'■•ii 
ill 
m 


M 

m 


98 


THE  CAPTIVES 


membered  the  especial  smell  of  beef  and  carpet  that  waa  the  din- 
ing-room, he  remembered  a  little  door  of  coloured  glass  on  the 
first  landing,  a  cupboard  that  had  in  it  sugar  and  apples,  a  room 
full  of  old  books  piled  high  all  about  the  floor  upon  the  dry  and 
dusty  boards  ...  a  thousand  other  things  came  crowding 
around  him. 

Then,  as  his  father's  voice  continued,  out  from  the  background 
there  came  his  own  figure,  a  small,  pale,  excited  boy  in  short 
trousers. 

He  was  immensely  excited— that  was  the  principal  thing.  It 
waa  evening,  the  house  seemed  to  swim  in  candlelight  and  smoke 
through  which  things  could  be  seen  only  dimly. 

Something  wonderful  was  about  to  happen  to  him.  He  was  in 
a  state  of  glory,  very  close  to  God,  so  close  that  he  could  almost 
see  Him  sitting  with  His  long  white  beard  in  the  middle  of  a 
cloud,  watching  Martin  with  interest  and  affection.  He  was 
pleased  with  Martin  and  Martin  was  pleased  with  himself.  At 
the  same  time  as  his  pleasure  he  was  aware  that  the  stuff  of  his 
new  black  trousers  tickled  bis  knees  and  that  he  was  hungry. 

lie  saw  his  small  sister  Amy  for  a  moment  and  expressed  quite 
effectively  by  a  smile  and  nod  of  the  head  his  immeasurable 
superiority  to  her.    .   .    . 

They,  he  and  his  father,  drove  in  a  cab  to  the  Chapel.  Of  what 
followed  then  he  was  now  less  aware.  He  remembered  that  he 
was  in  a  small  room  with  two  men,  that  they  all  took  off  their 
clothes  (he  remembered  that  one  man,  very  stout  and  red,  looked 
funny  without  his  clothes),  that  they  put  on  long  white  night- 
shirts, that  his  was  too  long  for  him  and  that  he  tripped  over  it, 
that  they  all  three  walked  down  the  centre  of  the  Chapel,  which 
•was  filled  with  eyes,  mouths  and  boots,  and  that  he  was  very 
conscious  of  his  toe-nails,  which  had  never  been  exposed  in  public 
before,  that  they  came  to  a  round  stone  place  filled  with  water  and 
into  this  after  the  two  men  he  was  dipped,  that  he  didn't  scream 
from  the  coldness  of  the  water  although  he  wanted  to,  that  he 
was  wrapped  in  a  blanket  and  finally  carried  home  in  an  ecstasy 
of  triumph. 

What  happiness  followed  I  The  vitality  of  it  swept  down  upon 
him  now,  so  that  he  seemed  never  to  have  lived  since  then.  He 
was  the  chosen  of  God  and  every  one  knew  it.  What  a  little 
prig  and  yet  how  simple  it  had  all  been,  without  any  consciousness 
of  insincerity  or  acting  on  his  part.  God  had  chosen  him  and 
there  he  was,  for  ever  and  ever  safe  and  happy. 
It  was  not  only  that  he  was  assured  that  when  the  moment 


THE  WARLOCKS 


99 


arriTed  he  would  have,  in  Heaven,  a  "good  time"— it  was  that 
he  was  greatly  exalted,  so  that  he  gave  his  twopence  a  week  pocket- 
money  to  his  school-fellows,  never  pulled  Amy's  hair,  never  teased 
his  mother's  canary.  He  bad  been  aware,  young  though  he  was,  of 
another  life.  He  prayed  and  prayed,  he  went  to  in  endless  suc- 
cession of  services  and  meetings.  There  was  Mr.  Bates,  one  of 
the  leading  brethren  then,  who  loved  him  and  spoilt  him  .  . 
above  all,  through  and  beyond  it  all,  there  was  his  father,  who 
adored  him  and  whom  ho  adored. 

That  adoration— of  God,  of  his  father,  of  life  itself!  Was  it 
possible  that  a  small  boy,  normal  and  ordinary  enough  in  other 
ways,  could  feel  so  intensely  such  passions? 

The  dark  room  was  crowding  him  with  figures  and  scenes.  A 
whole  world  that  he  had  thought  dead  and  withered  was  beating 
urgently,  insistently,  upon   his  consciousness. 

In  another  instant  he  did  not  know  what  surrender,  what 
acknowledgement  he  might  have  made.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
nothing  in  life  was  worth  while  save  to  receive  again,  in  some 
fashion,  that  vitality  that  he  had  once  known. 

The  door  was  flung  open;  a  stream  of  light  struck  the  dark; 
the  shadows,  memories,  fled,  helter-skelter,  like  crackling  smoke 
into  the  air. 

Amy  stood  in  the  doorway,  blinking  at  him,  scowling.  He 
knew,  for  some  undefined  reason,  that  he  could  not  meet  his  father's 
eyes.    He  jumped  up  and  walked  to  the  window. 


^11 


m 


CHAPTER  n 


EXFECTATION 


MAGGIE  developed  merrellously  during  her  first  weeks  in 
London.  It  could  not  truthfully  be  said  that  her  aunts 
gave  her  great  opportunity  for  development;  so  far  as  they  were 
concerned  she  might  as  well  have  been  back  in  the  green  seclusion 
of  St.  Dreots. 

It  is  true  that  she  accompanied  her  Aunt  Elizabeth  upon  several 
shopping  expeditions,  and  on  one  hazardous  afternoon  they  pene- 
trated the  tangled  undergrowth  of  Harrods'  Stores;  on  all  these 
occasions  Maggie  was  too  deeply  occupied  with  the  personal  safety 
and  happiness  of  her  aunt  to  have  leisure  for  many  observations. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  always  started  upon  her  shopping  expeditions 
with  the  conviction  that  something  terrible  was  about  to  happen, 
and  the  expectation  of  this  overwhelming  catastrophe  paralysed 
her  nerves.  Maggie  wondered  how  it  could  have  been  with  her 
when  she  had  ventured  forth  alone.  She  would  stand  in  the  middle 
of  the  street  hesitating  as  to  the  right  omnibus  for  her  to  take, 
she  was  often  uncertain  of  the  direction  in  which  she  should  go. 
She  would  wave  her  umbrella  at  an  omnibus,  and  then  when  it 
began  to  slacken  in  answer  to  her  appeal,  would  discover  that  it 
was  not  the  one  that  she  needed,  and  would  wave  her  umbrella 
furiously  once  more.  Then  when  at  last  she  had  mounted  the 
vehicle  she  would  flood  the  conductor  with  a  stream  of  little 
questions,  darting  her  eyes  angrily  at  all  her  neighbours  as  though 
they  were  gathered  there  together  to  murder  her  at  the  earliest 
opportunity.  She  would  be  desperately  confused  when  asked  to  pay 
for  her  ticket,  would  be  unable  to  find  her  purse,  and  then  when 
she  discovered  it  would  scatter  its  contents  upon  the  ground.  In 
such  an  agony  would  she  be  at  the  threatened  passing  of  her 
destination  that  she  would  spring  up  at  every  pause  of  the  omni- 
bus, striking  her  nearest  neighbour's  eye  or  nose  with  her  um- 
brella, apologising  nervously,  and  then,  because  she  thought  she 
had  been  too  forward  with  a  stranger,  staring  fiercely  about  her 
and  daring  any  one  to  speak  to  her.  Upon  the  day  that  she  visited 
Harrods'  she  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  the  lift  because 
she  always  wished  to  be  somewhere  where  she  was  not,  and  because 
it  always  went  up  when  she  wished  it  to  go  down  and  down  when 
100 


EXPECTATION 


101 


she  wished  it  to  go  up.  Maggie,  upon  this  eventful  occasion,  did 
her  best,  but  she  also  was  bewildered,  and  wondered  how  any  of 
the  attendants  found  their  way  home  at  night.  Before  the  end 
of  the  afternoon  Aunt  Elizabath  was  not  far  from  tears.  "  It 
isn't  cutlery  we  want.  I  told  the  man  that  it  was  saucepans.  They 
pay  us  no  attention  at  all.  You  aren't  any  help  to  me,  Maggie." 
They  arrived  in  a  room  filled  with  performing  gramophones.  This 
was  the  final  blow.  Aunt  Elizabeth,  trembling  all  over,  refused 
either  to  advance  or  retreat.  "  Will  you  please,"  said  Maggie  very 
firmly  to  a  beautifully  clothed  young  man  with  hair  like  a  looking- 
glass,  "  show  us  the  way  to  the  street! "  He  very  kindly  showed 
them,  and  it  was  not  until  they  were  in  the  homeward  omnibus  that 
Aunt  Elizabeth  discovered  that  she  had  bought  nothing  at  all. 

Nevertheless,  although  Maggie  collected  but  little  interesting 
detail  from  these  occasions,  she  did  gather  a  fine  general  impres- 
sion of  whirling  movement  and  advenvure.  One  day  she  would 
plunge  into  it — meanwhile  it  was  better  that  she  should  move 
slowly  and  assemble  gradual  impressions.  The  solid  caution  that 
was  mingled  in  her  nature  with  passionate  feeling  and  enthusiasm 
taught  her  admirable  wisdom.  Aunt  Anne,  it  seemed,  never  moved 
beyond  the  small  radius  of  her  home  and  the  Chapel.  She  at- 
tended continually  Bible-meetings,  prayer-meetings.  Chapel  ser- 
vices. She  had  one  or  two  intimate  friends,  a  simple  and  devout 
old  maid  called  Miss  Pyncheon,  Mr.  Magnus,  whom  Maggie  had 
seen  on  the  day  of  her  arrival,  Mr.  Thurston,  to  whom  Maggie  had 
taken  an  instant  dislike,  and  Amy  Warlock.  She  visited  these 
people  and  they  visited  her;  for  the  rest  she  seemed  to  take  no 
exercise,  and  her  declared  love  for  the  country  did  not  lead  her 
into  the  Parks.  She  was  more  silent,  if  possible,  than  she  had 
been  at  St.  Dreots,  and  read  to  herself  a  great  deal  in  the  dark 
and  melancholy  drawing-room.  Although  she  talked  very  little  to 
Maggie,  the  girl  fancied  that  her  eye  was  always  upon  her.  There 
was  a  strange  attitude  of  watchfulness  in  her  silent  withdrawal 
from  her  scene  as  though  she  had  retired  simply  because  she  could 
see  the  better  from  a  distance. 

She  liked  Maggie  to  read  the  Bible  to  her,  and  for  an  hour  of 
every  evening  Maggie  did  this.  For  some  reason  the  girl  greatly 
disliked  this  hour  and  dreaded  its  approach.  It  was  perhaps  be- 
cause it  seemed  to  bring  before  her  the  figure  of  her  father,  the 
words  as  they  fell  from  her  lips  seemed  to  be  repeoted  by  him  as 
he  stood  behind  her.  Nothing  was  more  unexpected  by  her  than 
the  way  that  those  last  days  at  St.  Dreots  crowded  about  her.  They 
should  surely  have  been  killed  by  the  colours  and  interesis  of  this 


103 


THE  CAPTIVES 


new  life.  It  appeared  that  they  were  only  accentuated  by  them 
Especially  did  she  see  that  night  when  ahe  had  watched  beside  her 
fathers  dead  body  ...  she  saw  the  stirring  of  the  beard,  the 
shape  of  the  feet  beneath  the  sheet,  the  flicker  of  the  candle. 

Apart  from  this  one  hour  of  the  day,  howerer,  she  was  happy 
excited,  expectant.  What  it  was  that  she  expected  she  did  not 
exactly  know,  but  there  were  so  many  things  that  life  might  now 
do  for  her.  One  thing  that  very  evidently  it  did  not  intend  to 
do  for  her  was  to  make  her  tidy,  careful,  and  a  good  manager  Old 
Martha,  the  Cardinal  servant,  was  her  sworn  enemy,  and,  indeed 
with  reason.  It  seemed  that  Maggie  could  not  remember  the 
things  that  she  was  told:  lighted  lamps  were  left  long  after  they 
should  have  been  extinguished,  one  night  the  bathroom  was 
drowned  in  water  by  a  running  tap,  her  clothes  were  not  mended, 
she  was  never  punctual  at  meal-times.  And  yet  no  one  could  call 
her  a  dreamy  child.  She  could,  about  things  that  interested  her, 
be  remarkably  sharp  and  penetrating.  She  had  a  swift  and  often 
successful  intuition  about  characters;  facts  and  details  about 
places  or  people  she  never  forgot.  She  had  a  hard,  severe,  entirely 
masculine  sense  of  independence,  an  ironic  contempt  for  sentimen- 
tality, a  warm,  ardent  loyalty  and  simplicity  in  friendship.  Her 
carelessness  m  all  the  details  of  life  sprang  from  her  long  muddled 
years  at  St.  Dreots,  the  lack  of  a  mother's  guidance  and  education 
the  careless  selfishness  of  her  father's  disregard  of  her. 

She  struggled,  poor  child,  passionately  to  improve  herself.  She 
sat  for  hours  in  her  room  working  at  her  clothes,  trying  to  mend 
her  stockings,  the  holes  in  her  blouses,  the  rip  of  the  braid  at 
the  bottom  of  her  skirt.  She  waited  listening  for  the  cuckoo  to 
call  that  she  might  be  in  exact  time  for  luncheon  or  dinner,  and 
then,  as  she  listened,  some  thought  would  occur  to  her,  and,  al- 
though she  did  not  dream,  her  definite  tracking  of  her  idea  would 
lead  her  to  forget  all  time.  Soon  there  w  ild  be  Martha's  knock 
on  the  door  and  her  surly  ill-tempered  voice : 
"Quarter  of  an  hour  they've  been  sitting  at  luncheon,  Miss." 
And  her  clothes  I  The  aunts  had  said  that  she  must  buy  what 
was  necessary,  and  she  had  gone  with  Aunt  Elizabeth  to  choose 
all  the  right  things.  They  had,  between  them,  bought  all  the 
wrong  ones.  Maggie  had  no  idea  of  whether  or  no  something 
suited  her;  a  dress,  a  hat  that  would  look  charming  upon  any 
one  else  looked  terrible  upon  her;  she  did  not  know  what  was  the 
matter,  but  nothing  became  her! 

Her  new  friend,  Caroline  Smith.  laughing  and  chattering  tried 
to  help  her.     Caroline  had  very  definite  ideas  about  dress,  and 


EXPECTATION  105 

indeed  ipent  the  majority  of  her  waking  hours  in  contemplation 
of  that  iubject.  But  ahe  had  never,  she  declared,  been,  in  all  her 
life,  80  puzzled.    She  was  perfectly  frank. 

"  But  it  looks  awful.  Maggie  dear,  and  yesterday  in  the  shop  it 
didn  t  seem  so  bad,  although  that  old  pig  wouldn't  let  us  hare  it 
the  way  we  wanted.  It's  just  as  it  is  with  poor  mother,  who  gets 
fatter  and  fatter,  diet  herself  as  she  may,  so  that  she  can  wear 
nothing  at  all  now  that  looks  right,  and  is  only  really  comfortable 
in  her  night-dress.  Of  course  you're  not  fat,  Maggie  darling,  but 
Its  your  figure-everything's  either  too  long  or  too  short  for  you. 
Xou  dont  mind  my  speaking  so  frankly,  do  you?  I  always  say 
ones  either  a  friend  or  not,  and  if  one's  a  friend  why  then  be  as 
rude  as  you  please.    What's  friendship  for?" 

They  were,  in  fact,  the  greatest  possible  friends.  Maggie  had 
never  possessed  e  girl-friend  before.  She  had,  in  the  first  days  of 
the  acquaintance,  been  shy  and  very  silent-she  had  been  afraid 
of  going  too  far.  But  soon  she  had  seen  that  she  couJd  not  go  too 
far  and  could  not  say  too  much.  She  had  discovered  then  a  multi- 
tude of  new  happinesses. 

"There  was  nothing,  she  found,  too  small,  too  unimportant  to 
claim  Carolines  interest.  Caroline  wished  to  know  everything 
and  soon  Maggie  disclosed  to  her  many  things  that  she  had  told 
to  no  other  human  being  in  her  life  before.  It  could  not  honestly 
be  said  that  Caroline  had  many  wise  comments  to  make  on  Mag- 
gie s  experiences.  Her  attitude  was  one  of  surprised  excitement, 
bhe  was  amazed  by  the  most  ordinary  incidents  and  conversations, 
bhe  found  Maggie's  life  quite  incredible. 

"You  must  stop  me,  Maggie,  if  I  hurt  your  feelings.  But 
really  I  .  .  .  Why,  if  poor  father  had  treated  me  like  that  I'd 
have  gone  straight  out  of  the  house  and  never  come  back.  I 
would  indeed.  .  .  Well,  here  you  are  now,  dear,  and  we  must 
just  see  each  other  as  often  as  ever  we  can!" 

They  made  a  strange  contrast,  Maggie  so  plaii  her  black 

dress  with  her  hair  that  always  looked  as  though  ,  d  been  cut 
short  like  a  boy's,  her  strong  rough  movements,  aud  Caroline 
'■>  neat  and  shining  and  entirely  feminine  that  her  only  business 
in  the  worid  seemed  to  be  to  fascinate,  beguile  and  bewilder  the 
opposite  sex.  Whatever  the  aunts  may  have  thought  of  this  new 
friendship,  they  said  nothing.  Caroline  had  her  way  with  them 
as  with  every  one  else.  Maggie  wondered  often  as  to  Aunt  Anne's 
real  thoughte.  But  Aunt  Anne  only  smiled  her  dim  cold  smile. 
gave  her  cold  hand  into  the  girl's  warm  one  and  said,  "  Good  after- 
noon, Caroline.    I  hope  your  father  and  mother  are  well " 


If 


: 

.    1 


104 


THE  CAPTIVES 


They  re  dean,  you  know,"  Caroline  aaid  to  Maggie;  "  I  do  ad- 
mire your  Aunt  Anne;  she  Iceepi  to  heraelf  so.  I  wish  I  could 
keep  to  myself,  but  I  nerer  was  able  to.  Poor  mother  used  to 
say  when  I  was  quite  little,  'YouTl  only  make  yourself  cheap. 
Came,  if  yon  go  on  like  that  Don't  make  yourself  cheap,  dear.' 
But  what  I  say  is,  one's  only  young  once  and  the  people  who  don't 
want  one  needn't  have  one." 

Nevertheless  there  were,  even  in  these  7,?ry  early  days,  direc- 
tions into  which  Maggie  did  not  follow  her  new  friend.  Young 
as  she  was  in  nany  things,  in  some  ways  she  was  very  old  indeed. 
She  had  been  t.-ained  in  another  school  from  Caroline;  she  felt 
from  the  very  first  that  upon  certain  questions  her  lovely  friend 
was  inexperienced,  foolish  and  dangerously  reckless.  On  the  ques- 
tion of  "  men,"  for  instance,  Maggie,  with  clear  knowledge  of  her 
father  and  her  uncle,  refused  to  follow  Caroline's  light  and  easy 
excursions.  Caroline  was  disappointed;  she  had  a  great  deal  to 
Bay  on  the  subject  and  could  speak,  she  assured  Maggie,  from  a 
vast  variety  of  experience :  "  Men  are  all  the  same.  What  I  say  is, 
show  them  you  don't  care  'that'  about  them  and  they'll  come 
Mtcr  yon.  Not  that  I  care  whether  they  do  or  no.  Only  it's  fun 
the  way  they  go  on.    You  just  try,  Maggie." 

But  Maggie  had  her  own  thoughts.  They  were  not  imparted  to 
her  friend.  Nothing  indeed  appeared  to  her  more  odd  than  that 
Caroline  should  be  so  wise  in  some  things  and  so  foolish  in  others. 
She  did  not  know  that  it  was  her  own  strange  upbringing  that  gave 
her  independent  estimates  and  judgments. 

The  second  influence  that,  during  these  first  weeks,  developed 
her  soul  and  body  was,  strangely  enough,  her  aunt's  elderly  friend, 
Mr.  Magnus.    If  Caroline  introduced  her  to  affairs  of  the  world, 
Mr.  Magnus  introduced  her  to  affairs  of  the  brain  and  spirit. 
^^  She  had  never  before  known  any  one  who  might  be  called 

clever."  Her  father  was  not.  Uncle  Mathew  was  not;  no  one 
in  St.  Dreots  had  been  clever.  Mr.  Magnus,  of  course,  was 
"  clever  "  because  he  wrote  books,  two  a  year. 

But  to  be  an  author,  was  not  a  claim  to  Maggie's  admiration. 
As  has  been  said  before,  she  did  not  care  for  reading,  and  con- 
sidered that  the  writing  of  books  was  a  second-rate  affair.  The 
things  that  Mi-.  Magnus  might  have  done  with  his  life  if  he  had 
not  spent  it  in  writing  boo'  ^I  She  regarded  him  with  the  kind 
indulgence  of  an  elder  who  watches  a  child  brick-building.  He 
very  quickly  discovered  her  attitude  and  it  amused  him.  They  be- 
came the  most  excellent  friends  over  it.  She  on  her  side  very 
quickly  discovered  the  true  reason  of  his  coming  so  often  to  their 


EXPECTATION  105 

hou»e;  he  loved  Aunt  Anne.  At  its  first  appearance  thia  diaooveiy 
waa  so  strange  and  odd  that  Maggie  refused  to  indulge  it.  Lore 
seemed  so  far  from  Aunt  Anne.  She  greeted  Mr.  Magnus  from 
the  chill  disUnce  whence  she  greeted  the  rest  of  the  world— she 
gave  him  no  more  than  she  gave  any  one  else— But  Mr.  Magnus 
did  not  seem  to  desire  more.  He  waited  patiently,  a  slightly  ironi- 
cal and  self-contemptuous  worshipper  at  a  shrine  that  very  seldom 
opened  its  doors,  and  never  admitted  him  to  its  altar.  It  was  this 
irony  that  Moggie  liked  in  him;  she  regarded  herself  in  the  same 
way.  Their  friendship  was  founded  on  a  mutual  detachment.  It 
prospered  exceedingly. 

Maggie  soon  discovered  that  Mr.  Magnus  was  very  happy  to 
ait  in  their  house  even  though  Aunt  Anne  was  not  present.  His 
attitude  seemed  to  he  that  the  atmosphere  that  she  left  behind  her 
was  enough  for  him  and  that  he  could  not,  in  justice,  eicept  any 
more.  Before  Maggie's  arrival  he  had  had  but  a  slender  excuse 
for  his  continual  presence.  He  could  not  sit  in  the  empty  draw- 
ing-room surveying  the  large  and  ominous  portrait  of  the  Cardinal 
childhood,  quite  alone  save  for  Thomas,  without  seeming  a  very 
considerable  kind  of  fool.  And  to  appear  that  in  the  eyes  of  Aunt 
Anne,  who  already  regarded  mankind  in  general  with  pity,  would 
be  a  mistake. 

Now  that  Maggie  was  here  he  might  come  so  often  as  he  pleased. 
Many  was  the  dark  afternoon  through  the  long  February  and 
March  months  that  they  sat  together  in  the  dim  drawing-room, 
Maggie  straining  her  eyes  over  an  attempted  reform  of  some 
garment,  Mr.  Magnus  talking  in  his  mild  iroi  -al  voice  with  his 
large  moon-like  spectacles  fixed  upon  nothing     n  particular. 

Mr.  Magnus  did  all  the  talking.  Maggie  l^aced  that,  all  hia 
life,  he  had  persisted  in  the  same  gentle  humorous  fashion  without 
any  especial  attention  as  to  the  wisdom,  agreement  or  even  ex- 
istence of  his  audience.  She  fancied  that  all  men  who  wrote  books 
did  that.  They  had  to  talk  to  "clear  their  ideas."  She  raised 
her  eyes  sometimes  and  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  there.  Hia  shabby, 
hapless  appearance  clways  appealed  to  her.  She  knew  that  he 
was,  in  reality,  anything  but  hapless,  but  his  clothes  never  fitted 
him,  and  it  was  impassible  for  him  to  escape  from  the  Quixotic 
embarrassmenta  of  his  thin  hair,  his  high  cheek-bones,  his  large 
spectacles.  His  smile,  however,  gave  him  hia  character;  when 
he  smiled— and  he  was  always  smiling— you  saw  a  man  inde- 
pendent, proud,  wise  and  gentle.  He  was  not  a  fool,  Mr.  Magnus, 
although  he  did  love  Aunt  Anne. 
To  a  great  deal  that  he  said  Maggie  paid  but  little  attention; 


106 


THE  CAPTIVKS 


I^Lil  .1  T  wn«t  th.  initUl  diMdT.ntw  th.t  .he 

wgiried  til  men  who  wrote  books  with  pity.     She  w«  not  m 
.tup,d  ..  not  to  re.li«  tb.t  the«  were  ,  g«.t  m.ny  fi^e  b»k.  11 

?k  ?        there  were.  ,l«,dy,  ,o  m.ny  fine  one.,  why  write  more 
Ihemiilve''.  '°™  "^  """  """'^"'^  '"  ""'«  "'<'  <""""  "^WP 

jutt  began  to  write,  and  then  it  was  Tery  ea.y.  Then  everythiDB 
d»  wa.  ea.y  The  fim  publisher  to  whom  Lent  it  a^Sed  i t 
It  wa.  pubhah^  and  had  quite  a  .ucceaa.  I  thought  I TaVmade 
for  hfe.    Anything  seemed  possible  to  one.    After  aU,    "uril 

I  published  a  book  a  year,  after  that,  for  ten  years-ten  year,  ten 
books,  and  then  awoke  to  the  fact  that  I  was  nothing  at  all  «ad 
would  never  be  a..ything-that  I  would  never  write  like  Sha"^ 
M^  H«jt'w.L'"'v'''  ^•""  importance,  would  never  Juifto 
Mr,  Henry  Wood.  Lot  that  I  wished  to  wriie  like  any  one  else. 
I  had  a  great  idea  of  keeping  to  my  own  individuality,  but  I  ,^ 
Z„V""''.  *"  "'"'*  \^'^  '"  ""y*"^"  of  it-was  no  „" 

n^^«  .  *•",'  '*  """e"^  I  •«"  that  I  was  one  of  those 
"rtt?"?,r''^^;''''"  "%""'«'  "^  them-iust  in  between^t^ 
!o!i5  u^  'bopkeepers.    1  was  an  artist  all  right,  but  not  a 

~U  r/goJlir  '"  ™"°"  "^  ^  '"'^  '  •'""'''«"*'  ^  ^'«*"  ''"' 

..!1S  T*"™'  ^"'*.  y°i"  Ideation,  Miss  Cardinal.     Why  on 

mvl^If  W  v""™'"".?'  •  •  ■  Simply  because  I  couldn-7he°p 
my«lf.    Writing  was  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  gave  me 

^Z  I  ^  ""'"*''*  *\"  *"*  *•»««  "i^ht  be  people,  tere  and 
there^own  to  me  who  cared  for  what  I  did  Not  mrny  of 
T^„T~  °  discovered  that  outside  the  small  libraiy  set  i" 
I«ndon  no  one  had  ever  heard  of  me.     When  I  wa,  y"un^r  I 

Nov^lTw-  r"  *«*  *°  ""'  ^''^  ""'»«  advertisemeit:  "New 
Novel  by  William  Magnus,  author  of  .  .  ."  must  cause  men  to 
stop  in  the  street,  exclaim,  rush  home  to  tell  their  wives,  'Do  you 
know  Magnus-  new  novel  is  out?  '-now  I  realised  that  by  nine  out 
of  eveor  ten  men  and  five  out  of  every  ten  women  the  literaTpa^ 

SJcb  fr'  "  '"™^°™-  "i"-  ""^tly  the  same  impatient  wiS 
which  I  turn  over  the  betting  column..    Anyway,  why  not? 


EXPECTATION 


107 


perfectly  right.  And  then  by  thi«  time  I'd  leen  my  old  bookt. 
often  enough,  lying  tcettered  emongat  duity  pilei  in  lecond-hand 
ehope  merked,  '  AU  thi>  lot  6d.'  Hundred!  end  hundreds  of  .ix- 
■hilling  novelt,  dirty,  degraded,  ■ihemed.  ...  I'd  aik,  lome- 
timei,  when  I  was  ii«rj/  young,  for  my  own  works.  '  What's  the 
Mme?  What?  Magnus?— No,  don't  stock  him.  No  demand. 
We  could  get  you  a  copy,  sir.  .  .  .'  There  it  is.  Why  not  laugh 
.  t  It?  I  was  doing  perhaps  the  most  useless  thing  in  the  world 
A  commonplace  little  water-colour,  hung  on  a  wall,  can  give  happi- 
ness to  heaps  of  people;  a  poor  piece  of  music  can  do  a  thousand 
things,  good  and  bad,  but  an  unsuccessful  norel— twenty  unsuc- 
cessful novels!  A  whole  row,  with  the  same  history  awaiting  their 
successors.  .  .  .  'We  welcome  a  new  novel  by  Mr.  William 
Magnus,  who  our  readers  will  remember  wrote  '.hat  clever  story. 
.  .  .  The  present  work  seems  to  us  at  lee.at  the  equal  of  any 
that  have  preceded  it."  ...  A  fortnight'a  advertisement— Dead 
silence.  Some  one  in  the  Club, '  I  see  you've  written  another  book, 
old  man.  You  do  turn  'em  out.'  A  letter  from  a  Press  Agency 
who  has  never  heard  of  one's  name  before,  '  /  little  sheaf  of  thin 
miserable  cuttings.'  ...  The  Sixpenny  Lot.  .  .  .  Ouf  I  And 
etill  I  go  on  and  shall  go  on  until  I  die.  Perhaps  after  all  I'm 
moie  justified  than  any  of  them.  I'm  stripped  of  all  reasons  save 
the  pleasure,  the  thri'.J,  the  torment,  the  hope*,  the  despairs  of  the 
work  Itself.  I've  got  nothing  else  out  of  it  and  thall  get  nothing 
;,.■  •  ""J  *l>erefore  I'm  justified.  Now  do  you  understand  a  little. 
Miss  Cardinal?" 

She  half  understood.  She  understood  that  he  was  compelled 
to  do  it  just  aa  some  men  are  compelled  to  go  to  race  meetings  and 
just  as  Uncle  Mathew  was  compelled  to  drink. 

But  she  nevertheless  thought  it  a  dreadful  pity  that  he  was 
unable  to  stop  and  interest  himself  in  something  else.  Then 
he  could  see  it  av  plainly  and  yet  go  on!  She  admired  and  at  the 
same  time  pitied  him. 

It  seemed,  this  private  history  of  Mr.  Magnus,  at  first  sight  so 
far  from  Maggie's  immediate  concerns,  her  new  life,  her  aunts,  the 
Chapel  and  the  Chapel  world.  It  was  only  afterwards,  when  she 
looki^d  back,  that  she  was  able  to  see  that  all  these  private  affairs  of 
pri.ate  people  radiated  inwards,  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  towan'.j 
the  mysterious  inner  circle— that  inner  circle  of  which  she  was 
already  dimly  aware,  and  of  which  she  was  soon  to  feel  the  heat 
and  light.  She  was,  meanwhile,  so  far  impressed  by  Mr.  Magnus' 
confiderces  that  she  borrowed  one  of  his  novels  from  Caroline, 
who  confided  to  her  that  she  herself  thought  it  the  dullest  and 


m 


THR  CAPTIVES 


Thu  book  bora  the  mjriteriout  titia  of  "Dnriin^"    i. 


EXPECTATION 


IM 


I  couMn  t  imtgine  whit  th«y  were  «U  about,  It  wkin't  the  ordinary 
London  congregation,  it  wa>  almott  the  ordinaiy  London  aerrica 
•nd  yet  not  quite;  there  tvai  an  air  of  expectation  and  eren 
eicitraient  which  li  no.t  unutual  in  a  London  church.  Then  there 
wai  Warlock.  Of  course  one  could  ice  at  once  that  he  was  an 
Jltraordinary  man,  a  Icind  of  prophet  all  on  his  own;  he  was  aa 

I  »•.«'  from  that  congregation  aa  Columbus  was  from  his  drew 
when  he  first  sighted  the  Indies. 

"  I'Te  met  one  or  two  prophets  in  my  time,  and  their  concern 

J  .u  •'"•  •'^?  "'"'  *'■*''  •"dience  first,  themselves  second 
•Dd  their  vision  last.  Warloclc  is  the  other  way  round.  Ho  should 
have  been  a  hermit,  not  the  leader  of  a  community.  Well,  it  in- 
Mrested  me.  I  came  again  and  again.  ...  I'm  >friaa  to  stav 
on  now  until  the  end."  ^^ 

"The  end?"  asked  Maggie. 

"The  end  of  myself  or  the  Chapel,  whichever  comes  first  I 
wrote  a  story  onco-a  very  bad  one-about  some  merchsnta-- 
why  merchants  I  don't  know-who  wo-e  flung  on  a  desert  island. 
It  was  all  jungle  and  desolation,  and  then  suddenly  they  ume 
upon  a  little  white  Temple.  It  doora't  matter  what  happen^ 
afterwards.  I've  myself  forgotten  nvst  of  it,  but  I  rememba  that 
the  sailors  used  the  Temple  in  different  ways  to  keep  their  honea 
and  expectations  alive.  Their  expectations  that  one  day  a  ship  would 
come  and  save  them  .  .  and  so  far  as  I  remember  they  became 
imaginative  about  the  Temple,  and  fancied  that  the  Unknown 
God  of  It  would  help  them  to  regain  their  private  affairs:  one  of 
them  wanted  to  get  back  to  his  girl,  another  to  his  favourite  pub, 
another  to  his  money-making,  another  to  his  collection  of  minia- 
tures. And  they  used  to  sit  and  look  at  the  Temple  day  after 
day  uid  expect  something  to  happen.  When  the  ship  came  at 
last  they  wouldn't  go  into  it  because  they  couldn't  bear  to  think 
that  something  should  happen  at  last  and  they  not  be  there  to 
see  It.  Oh  yes,  one  of  them  went  back,  I  remember.  But  his 
actual  meeting  with  his  girl  was  so  disappointing  in  comparison 
with  hia  long  expectation  of  it  in  front  of  the  Temple  that  he 
took  the  n«t  boat  back  to  the  island  ...  but  he  never  found 
It  again.    He  traveUed  everywhere  and  died,  a  disappointed  man, 

Mr.  Magnus  was  fond  of  telling  little  stories,  obscure  and  point- 
less, and  Maggie  supposed  that  it  was  a  literary  habit  On  this 
occasion  he  continued  M  talk  quite  naturally  for  his  own  satisfac- 
tion, res,  one  e  oneself  believe  in  anything.  I  have 
believed  in  all  so.      ^t   things.     In  England,  of  course,  people 


rl 


'  *l 


IW 


THE  CAPTIVES 


h«T«  beliove,!  in  nothing  ucpt  that  thing,  will  .Iwiy.  b«  ..  they 
•Iwvi  I,.'  betMi-B  uwful  belief  con.idering  th.t  thing,  hive 
Mver  been  ..  they  eliviy.  were.  In  the  old  d.y.,  when  thi-  Boer 
Wir  hidn  t  interfered  with  tradition,  it  muit  have  nverned  to  eny 
one  who  wa.ii  to  young  man  pretty  hopele...  but  now  I  don't  know. 
Imagination',  ^r^king  in  .  .  .  Warloek'.  a  prophet.  In  got 
fa.cin.ted,  .itting  round  thi.  Chapel,  a.  badly  a.  any  of  them, 
re.,  one  can  be  led  into  belief  of  anything." 

."  w"  p  "'"'  '•'''  ''""  '*"''"'  '"•  ^'-  Magnu.  I  "  aaked  Maggie. 
Wer    not  in  myielf  anyway,  nor  Thurtton,  nor  Win  Avic. 
.    .    .    But  in  your  Aunt  prrhapa,  and  Warlock.    The  only  thing 
im  aure  of  t.  that  there',  aomething  there,  but  what  it  i.  of 
coune  I  can't  tell  you,  and  I  don't  auppow  I  ahall  ever  know. 
The  atoiT  of  Sir  Oalahad,  Mi..  Cardinal-it  .eema  mid- Victorian 
to  ua  now— but  it',  a  fine  atory  and  true  enough  " 
Maggie,  who  knew  nothing  of  mid-Victorianiam.  waa  ailent. 
He  ended  with :  "  Mind  you  decide  for  youraelf.     That'a  the 
great  thing  in  life.    Don't  you  beliere  anything  that  any  one 
tella  you.     See  for  youraelf.     And  if  there'a  aome,  .ng  of  great 
value,  don  t  think  the  leaa  of  it  becauK  the  people  who  admire  it 
aren  t  worth  very  much.    Why  ahould  they  be  ?    And  poaaibly  after 
all  jta  only  themaeWe.  they're  admiring.    .   .    .    There'a  a  fear- 
ful lot  of  nonMnae  and  humbug  in  tbia  thing,  but  there'a  aomething 
real  too.    ..."  • 

He  changed  hia  note,  auddenly  addreaaing  himaelf  intently 
to  her  B8  though  he  had  a  meaaage  to  deliver. 

" ?»"!',"''"''  "e  impertinent.  But  your  Aunt  Anne.  See  a. 
much  of  her  aa  you  can.  She'a  devoted  to  you,  Miaa  Cardinal, 
rou  mayn  t  have  aeen  it-»he'a  a  reaerved  woman  and  very  ahy  of 
her  feeling.,  but  .he',  .poken  to  me.  ...  I  hope  I'm  not  intei^ 
tenter  to  .ay  thia,  but  perhapa  at  first  you  don't  understand  her. 
She  love,  you,  you're  the  first  human  being  I  do  believe  that  she'a 
ever  loved." 

What  was  there  then  in  Maggie  that  started  up  in  rebeUion  at 
this  unexpected  declaration!  She  had  been  sitting  there,  tranquil 
soothed  TTith  a  happy  sense  that  her  new  life  was  developing 
aecurely  tor  her  in  the  way  that  she  would  have  it.  Suddenly  she 
was  alert,  auspicious,  hoatile. 

"What  has  she  said  to  you?"  she  aaked  quickly,  frowning  up 
at  him  and  drawing  bock  as  though  .he  were  afraid  of  him.  He 
waa  startled  at  the  chunge  in  her. 

"Said?"  he  repeated,  stammering  a  little,  "Why  only. 
Nothing    .   .   .    except  that  .he  cared  for  you  and  hoped  that  you 


LXPECTATION 


111 


»ouM  b*  hippy.    She  wm  tfriid  th«t  it  would  ill  be  itrnngp  for 
you  at  lint.    .   .   .    Perhapa  I  hare  been  interferinir.    ..." 

"  No,"  Maggie  interrupted  quickly.  "  Not  you.  Only  I  muat 
lead  my  ijwn  life.  I  rauit,  mustn't  II  I  don't  want  to  be  telfiih, 
but  I  can  begin  for  myielf  now.  I  han  a  little  money  of  my 
own— ami  I  mutl  make  my  own  way.  I  don't  want  to  be  telilah," 
ahe  repeated,  "but  I  muit  be  free.  I  don't  underitand  Aunt 
Anne.  She  never  wema  to  care  for  me.  I  want  to  do  ererything 
for  her  I  can,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  under  any  one  erer  any  more." 
She  wai  ao  young  when  ihe  said  thi«  that  he  wan  iuddenly 
moved  to  an  aflectionato  fatherly  tcnderneaa— but  he  knew  hrr 
now  too  well  to  show  it. 

"No,  you  muitn't  b«  leiaah,"  he  aniwered  her  almoat  drily. 
"We  can't  lead  our  Uvea  quite  alone,  you  know— every  atep  we 
take  we  affect  some  on"  somewhere.  Your  aunt  doesn't  want  your 
liberty — ahe  wants  your  uffection." 

"  She  wanta  to  make  me  religioua,"  Maggie  brought  out,  staring 
at  Mr.  Magnus. 

"  Ah,  if  yo-i  see  that,  you  don't  understand  her,"  he  answered. 
"How  should  you— yet t  She  carea  so  deeply  for  her  religion 
that  she  wishes  naturally  any  one  whom  ahe  loves  to  share  it  with 

her.    But  if  you  don't " 

"If  you  don't t"  cried  Maggie,  springing  up  from  her  seat  and 
facing  him. 

"I'm  aure  she  would  wish  to  influence  no  one,"  he  continued 
gravely.    "  Tou've  seen  for  your  •  'f  how  apart  her  life  ia.    She  ia 

too  conscir  us  of  the  necessity  ^o.  iier  own  liberty " 

"  It  isn't  liberty,  .t  l  slavery,"  Maggie  caught  him  up  passion- 
ately. "  Do  you  suppose  I  heven't  watched  all  these  weeks!  What 
does  her  religion  do  but  shut  her  off  from  everything  and  every- 
body f  Is  she  kind  to  Aunt  Elisabeth?  No.  she  isn't,  and  you 
know  it.  Would  she  care  if  we  were  all  of  us  buried  in  the  ruins 
of  this  house  to-morrow?  Not  for  a  single  moment.  And  it's  her 
religion.  I  hate  religion.  I  hate  it  I  .  .  .  and  since  I've  been  in 
this  house  I"ve  hated  it  more  and  more.  You  don't  know  what  it 
was  like  with  father.  I  don't  think  of  it  now  or  talk  of  it,  but  I 
know  what  it  made  of  him.  And  now  it's  the  same  here,  miy  it 
takes  them  in  a  different  way.  But  it's  the  same  in  the  id— no 
one  who's  religious  cares  for  any  one.  And  they'd  make  the  same 
of  me.  Aunt  Anne  would— the  same  as  she's  made  of  Aunt 
Elizabeth.  They  he~en't  said  much  yet.  but  they're  waiting  for  the 
right  moment,  and  then  they'll  spring  it  upon  me.  It's  in  the  house, 
it's  in  the  rooms,  it's  in  the  very  furniture.    It's  aa  though  father 


lU 


THE  CAPTIVES 


ill 


had  come  back  and  wai  driving  me  into  it.  And  I  want  to  be  free 
1  want  to  lead  my  own  life,  to  make  it  myself.  I  don't  want  to' 
think  about  God  or  Heaven  or  Hell.  I  don't  care  whether  I'm  good 
or  bad.  .  .  .  What's  the  use  of  my  being  here  in  London  and 
never  seemg  anything.  I'll  go  into  a  shop  or  something  and  work 
my  fingers  to  the  bone.  They  ,Aa»'<  catch  me.  They  , han't. 
...    If  Uncle  Mathew  were  here.    ..." 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  breathless,  staring  at  Mr.  Magnus  as 
though  she  had  not  been  aware  until  now  that  he  was  in  the 
room.  -To  say  that  her  outburst  astonished  him  was  to  put  it 
very  mildly  mdeed.  She  had  always  been  so  quiet  and  restrained; 
she  had  seemed  so  happy  and  tranquil. 

He  blushed,  pushed  his  spectacles  with  his  fingers,  then  finally 
stammered : 
"I'd  no  iJea— that— that  you  hated  it  so  much." 
She  was  quiet  and  composed  again.     "I  don't  hate  it,"  she 
answered  ve^  calmly.    "Only  they  shan't  tie  me-no  one  shall. 
And  m  the  house  it's  as  though  some  one  were  watching  behind 
every  door.    It  used  to  be  just  the  same  at  home.    When  people 
think  a  lot  about  religion  something  seems  to  get  into  a  place. 
Why,  truly,  Mr.   Magnus,  I've  wondered  once  or  twice  lately 
in  spite  of  myself,  whether  they  mayn't  be  right  after  all  and 
Uod  s  going  to  come  in  a  chariot  and  set  the  world  on  fire 

It  sounds  silly,  but  when  you  see  the  way  Aunt  Anne  and 
Mr.  Warlock  believe  things  it  almost  makes  them  true." 

Maggie  finally  added:  "  You  mustn't  think  me  selfish.  I'm  very 
very  grateful  for  all  their  kindness.  I'm  very  happy.  It's  all 
splendid  compared  with  what  life  used  to  be  at  home— but  I  fancy 
sometimes  that  the  aunts  think  I'm  just  going  to  settle  down 
here^for  ever  and  be  like  them-and  I'm  not-I'm  afraid  of  Aunt 

that^"'''  °*  ^"^"  ^"^  ■"'■  ^"^'"-     "^^'  yo"  mustn't  be 

"  She  has  some  plan  in  her  head.    I  know  she  has " 

I  No  plan  is  set  except  for  your  good,"  said  Mr.  Magnus. 
I  don  t  want  any  one  to  bother  about  my  good,"  answered  Mag- 
gie.      I  can  look  after  that  for  myself." 

This  little  conversation  revealed  Maggie  to  Mr.  Magnus  in 
an  entirely  new  light.  He  had  thought  her,  until  now,  a  good 
simple  girl,  entirely  ignorant  of  life  and  eager  to  be  taught.  The 
sudden  discoveiy  of  her  independence  distressed  him.  He  left  the 
house  that  afternoon  with  many  new  points  to  consider 
Meanwhile  Maggie  had  kept  from  him  the  true  root  of  the 


EXPECTATION 


US 


matter.  She  had  aaid  nothicg  of  Martin  Warlock.  She  had  said 
notiung,  even  to  herself,  about  him,  and  yet  the  consciousness  of 
her  meeting  with  him  was  always  with  her  as  a  fire  smoulders 
in  the  hold  of  a  ship,  burning  stealthily  through  the  thick  heart 
of  the  place,  dim  and  concealed,  to  burst  suddenly,  with  a  touch 
of  the  wind,  into  shining  flame. 

It  was  after  her  talk  to  Mr.  Magnus  that  she  suddenly  saw 
that  Martin  Warlock  was  always  in  her  thoughts,  and  then,  be- 
cause she  was  Maggie  and  had  never  been  deceitful  to  herself  or 
to  any  one  else,  she  faced  the  fact  and  considered  it.  She  knew 
that  she  was  ignorant  of  the  world  and  of  life,  that  she  knew 
nothing  about  men  and,  although  she  had  many  times  fancied  to 
herself  what  love  must  be  like,  she  did  not  tell  herself  now  that 
it  was  love  that  had  come  to  her. 

She  saw  him  as  a  desirable  companion;  she  thought  that  he 
would  make  a  most  interesting  friend ;  she  would  like  to  make  her 
experiences  of  life  with  him  at  her  side.  She  would  be  free 
and  he  would  be  free,  but  they  would  exchange  confidences. 

And  then  because  she  was  very  simple  and  had  learnt  nothing  of 
the  difference  between  the  things  that  decent  girls  might  do  and 
the  things  they  might  not  she  began  to  consider  the  easiest  way 
of  meeting  him.  She  intended  to  go  to  him  simply  as  one  human 
being  to  another  and  tell  him  that  she  liked  him  and  hoped  that 
they  would  often  see  one  another.  There  were  no  confused  issues 
nor  questions  of  propriety  before  Maggie.  Certainly  she  was  aware 
that  men  took  advantage  of  girls'  weakness— but  that  was,  as  in  the 
case  of  Uncle  Mathew,  when  they  had  drunk  too  much— and  it  was 
the  fault  of  the  girls,  too,  for  not  looking  after  themselves.  Maggie 
felt  that  she  could  look  after  herself  anywhere.  She  was  more 
afraid,  by  far,  of  her  Aunt  Anne  than  of  any  man. 

It  happened  on  the  very  day  after  that  conversation  with  Mr. 
Magnus  that  Aunt  Anne  said  at  luncheon: 

"  I  think,  Maggie  dear,  if  you  don't  mind,  that  you  and  I  will 
pay  a  call  on  Mrs.  Warlock  this  afternoon.  You  have  not  been 
there  yet.    To-day  will  be  a  very  good  opportunity." 

Maggie's  mind  flew  at  once  to  her  clothes.  She  had  been  with 
Caroline  Smith  to  that  young  lady's  dressmaker,  a  thin  and  sharp- 
faced  woman  whose  black  dress  gleamed  with  innumerable  pins. 
Maggie  had  been  pinched  and  measured,  pulled  in  here  and  pulled 
out  there.  Then  there  had  been  afternoons  when  she  had  been 
"fitted"  under  Caroline's  humorous  and  critical  eye.  Finally  the 
dress  had  been  delivered,  only  two  days  ago,  in  a  long  card-board 
box;  it  waited  now  for  the  great  occasion. 


114 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I  ! 


The  great  occasion  had,  in  the  guise  of  the  Warlock  family 
aurely  arrived  Maggie's  heart  beat  as  she  went  up  to  her  room! 
When  at  last  she  was  wearing  the  dress,  standing  before  her  mirror 
her  cheeks  were  red  and  her  hands  shook  a  little. 

The  dress  yiaa  very  fine— simpli.  of  course  and  quite  plain  but 
elegant  as  no  dress  of  Maggie's  had  ever  been  elegant.  There 
aurely  could  not  anywhere  be  a  more  perfect  black  dress,  and  yet 
as  Maggie  gazed,  she  was  aware  that  there  was  something  not  quite 
light.  She  was  always  straightforward  with  herself;  yes,  the 
«img  that  was  not  quite  right  was  her  own  stupid  shape.  Her 
figure  was  too  square,  her  back  was  too  short,  her  hands  too  large, 
hhe  had  a  moment  of  acute  disgust  with  herself  so  that  she  could 
have  torn  the  dress  from  her  and  rushed  into  her  old  obscure  and 
dingy  n.ack  again.  Of  what  use  to  dress  her  up?  She  w<  id 
always  look  wrong,  always  be  awkward  and  ungainly  .  .  .  tears 
of  disappointment  gathered  slowly  in  her  eyes.  Then  her  pride 
reasserted  itself;  she  raised  her  head  proudly  and  laughed  at  her 
anxious  gaze.  There  was  still  her  new  hat.  She  took  it  from  the 
bed  and  put  it  on,  sticking  big  pins  into  it,  moving  back  from  the 
mirror,  then  forward  again,  turning  her  back,  standing  on  her 
toes,  suddenly  bowing  to  herself  and  waving  her  hand. 

She  was  caught  thus,  laughing  into  the  mirror,  by  old  Martha, 
who  pushed  her  sour  face  through  the  door  and  said:  "They've 
been  waiting  this  long  time  for  you.  Miss." 

"AH  right,  Martha,"  Maggie  answered  sharply,  annoyed  that 
she  should  be  found,  posturing  and  bowing,  by  the  woman.  "  Why 
didn't  you  knock?"  ^ 

",}  lii  '"'?*''''  ^"^-  ^°^  "*■*  *^"*  occupied  you  didn't  hear 
me.      The  old  woman  was  grinning. 

Maggie  went  downstairs,  her  heart  still  beating,  her  cheeks  still 
flushed.  She  did  hope  that  Aunt  Anne  would  be  pleased.  Aunt 
Anne,  although  she  never  said  anything  about  clothes,  must  of 
course,  notice  such  things,  and  if  she  loved  Maggie  as  Mr.  Magnus 
said  she  did,  then  she  would  show  her  approval.  The  girl  stood 
for  a  moment  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  staircase  looking  at  her 
aunt  who  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  little  dark  hall. 

"  Well,  dear — I'm  waiting,"  she  said. 

The  burning  eyes  of  Thomas  the  cat  watched  from  the  deep 
shadows.  *^ 

"  I'm  so  sorry.    I  was  dressing,"  said  Maggie. 

Her  aunt  said  nothing  more  and  they  left  the  house. 

Maggie,  as  always  when  she  walked  with  Aunt  Anne,  was  aware 
that  they  made  a  strange  couple,  she  so  short  and  the  other  so 


EXPECTATION  us 

tall,  she  with  her  sturdy  masculine  walk,   her  aunt   with  her 
awkward  halting  morement.    They  went  in  silence. 

Maggie  longed  for  a  word  of  approval;  a  short  sentence  such 
as      How  nice  you're  looking,  Maggie,"  or  "I  like  your  dress. 

^f?*V^  ."C  ^''•">  f  T  ''"'''  '^^"'-I  ■"'«  i'-"  ''-'"'d  be  enough 
After  that  Maggie  felt  that  she  could  face  a  multitude  of  wild  and 
savage  Warlocks,  that  she  could  walk  into  the  Wnrlock  drawing- 
room  with  a  fine  brave  carriage,  above  all,  that  she  would  feel  a 
sudden  warm  affection  for  her  aunt  that  would  make  all  their 
luture  life  together  easy. 

But  Aunt  Anne  said  nothing.     She  looked  exactly  as  she  had 
looked  upon  her  first  appearance  at  St.  Dreots,  so  thin  and  tall 
with  her  pale  tapering  face  and  her  eyes  staring  before  her  as 
though  they  saw  nothing. 
Maggie,  as  they  turned  up  into  Garrick  Street,  said: 

I  hope  you  like  my  new  dress,  aunt." 
Aunt  Anne  turned  to  her  for  a  moment,  smiled  gently  and  then 
vaguely,  as  though  her  mmd  were  elsewhere,  answered- 
I  liked  your  old  dress  better,  dear." 
Maggie's  face  flamed;  her  temper  flared  into  her  eyes.    For  a 
^K^rh  ,f  ^^/  wild  thoughts  of  breaking  into  open  rebellion, 
bhe  hated  her  dress,  she  hated  London,  above  all,  she  hated  Aunt 
Anne.      Ihat  lady's   happy   unconsciousness    that  anything  had 
occurred  drove  the  g,rl  into  furious  irritation.    Well,  it  was  hop^ 
less  then,  Mr.  Magnus  could  say  what  he  pleased,  her  aunt  did  not 
care  for  her-she  would  not   :.ind  did  she  fall  dead  in  the  street 
before  her.    The  words  m  Maggie's  mind  were:  "You  don't  look 
at  me.    I  m  not  a  human  being  to  you  at  all.    But  I  won't  live  with 

fr„  '^l^J  °T  "?■  J""  "^""'*  •'^^P  "•«  i^  y™  n«^"  speak 
to  me  nor  think  of  me."    But  in  some  dark  fashion  that  strange 

■passivity  held  her.    Aunt  Anne  had  her  power.    . 

They  climbed  the  dim  crooked  staircase  behind  the  antiquary's 
wall  They  rang  the  Warlock  bell  and  were  admitted.  Maggie  did 
not  feiow  what  it  was  that  she  had  expected,  but  it  was  certainly 
not  the  pink,  warm  room  of  Mrs.  Warlock 

.=^!  /  T/^  ~J"^.  '1™.'°''  ^""^  ''™'"«'''  ">«™  '"■  the  silent 
^r^i,  ^  *l?^  'l"'  '*'P''  *^^  ""^-^  twittered,  the  fire 
^urt^and  crackled.  But  at  once  the  girl's  heart  went  out  to  old 
Mrs.  Warlock;  she  looked  so  charming  in  her  white  cap  and  blue 
bow  her  eyes  were  raised  so  gently  to  Maggie's  face  and  her  little 
hand  was  so  soft  and  warm. 

The  meeting  between  Anne  Cardinal  and  Mrs.  Warlock  was 
very  Kraciona.    Aunt  Anne  gravely  pressed  the  old  lady's  hand 


116 


THE  CAPTIVES 


looked  at  her  with  her  gr»Te  dirtant  eyes,  then  very  carefully  and 
delicately  sat  down. 

Amy  Warlock  came  in;  Maggie  had  met  her  before  and  dis- 
liked her.  Ccnvereation  dealt  decently  and  carefully  with  the 
weather,  the  canary  and  Maggie's  discovery  of  London.  Maggie 
was  compelled  to  confess  that  she  was  afraid  that  she  bad  not  dis- 
covered London  at  all.  She  felt  Amy  Warlock's  sharp  eyes  upon 
them  all  and,  as  always  when  she  was  in  company  that  was,  she 
thought,  suspicious  of  her,  she  became  hot  and  uncomfortable,  she 
frowned  and  spoke  in  short,  almost  hostile,  sentences. 

"  They're  laughing  at  my  new  clothes,"  she  thought,  "  I  wish  I'd 
worn  my  old  ones  ...  and  anyway  these  hurt  me."  She  sat  up 
very  stiffly,  her  hands  on  her  lap,  her  eyes  staring  at  the  little 
bright  water-colour  on  the  wall  opposite.  Mrs.  Warlock,  like  a 
trickling,  dancing  brook,  continued  her  talk : 

"  Of  course  there's  the  country.     I  was  bron .    t  up  as  a  girl 

just  outside  Salisbury.    ...    So  many,  many  yea™  ago— I  always 

J  *eU  ."y  boy  thst  I'm  such  an  old  woman  now  that  I  don't  belong 

to  his  world  at  all.    Just  to  sit  here  and  see  the  younger  generation 

I  go  past.    Don't  regret  your  youth.  Miss  Cardinal.    You'll  want  it 

back  again  one  day.    I  said  to  Martin  only  yesterday.    ..." 

Neither  Aunt  Anne  nor  Amy  Warlock  had  anything  to  say, 
so  that  quite  suddenly  on  the  entrance  of  tea,  conversation  dropped. 
They  all  sat  there  and  looked  at  one  another.  There  was  a  large 
silver  tray  with  silver  tea-things  upon  it  and  a  fat  swelling  china 
dish  that  held  hot  buttered  toast.  There  was  a  standing  wicker 
pyramid  containing  bread  and  butter,  plates  of  little  yellow  and 
red  cakes,  shortbread  and  very  heavy  plum  cake  black  with  cur- 
rants. 

Mrs.  Warlock  had  ceased  all  conversation,  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  preparations  for  tea.  The  door  opened  and  John  Warlock 
and  his  son  came  in. 

Maggie's  eyes  lighted  when  she  saw  Martin  Warlock.  She 
behaved  as  she  might  have  done  had  she  been  in  her  own  room  at 
St.  Dreots.  She  sprang  up  from  her  chair  and  stood  there,  smil- 
ing, waiting  for  him.  First  his  father  shook  hands  with  her,  then 
Martin  came  and  stood  beside  her,  laughing. 

His  face  was  flushed  and  he  seemed  excited  about  something,  but 
she  felt  nothing  save  her  pleasure  at  meeting  him,  and  it  was  only 
when  he  had  moved  on  to  her  aunt  that  she  was  conscious  once  more 
of  Amy  Warlock's  eyes,  and  wondered  whether  she  had  behaved 
badly  m  jumping  up  to  meet  him. 

As  she  considered  this  her  anger  and  her  confusion  at  her  anger 


EXPECTATION 


117 


increased.  She  aaw  that  Martin  was  trying  to  her  aunt  and  did  not 
look  at  her.  Perhaps  he  also  had  thought  her  forward;  of  course 
that  horrid  sister  of  his  would  think  everything  that  she  did  wrong. 
But  did  he?  Surely  he  understood.  She  wanted  to  ask  him  and 
then  wanted  to  go  home  and  leave  them  all.  She  saw  that  her  tea- 
cup was  trembling  in  her  hand.  She  steadied  it  upon  her  knee 
and  then  her  knee  began  to  quiver,  and  all  the  time  Amy  Warlock 
watched  her.  She  thought  then  that  she  must  assert  herself  and 
show  that  she  was  not  confused  nor  timid,  so  she  began  in  a 
high-8trained  voice  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Warlock.  She  told  Mrs.  War- 
lock that  she  found  Harrods'  a  confusing  place,  that  she  had  not 
yet  visited  Westminster  Abbey,  that  her  health  was  quite  good,  that 
she  had  no  brothers  and  no  sisters,  that  she  could  not  play  the 
piano,  and  tha.  she  was  afraid  that  sLa  never  read  books. 

It  was  aXter  the  last  of  these  interesting  statements  that  she 
was  suddenly  aware  of  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  as  though  it  had 
been  a  brazen  gong  beating  stridently  in  the  vastness  of  a  deserted 
Cathedral.  She  saw  the  old  lady  take  two  pieces  of  buttered  toast 
from  the  china  dish,  hold  them  tenderly  in  her  hand  and  fling  them 
a  swift  bird-hke  glance  before  she  devoured  them;  during  that 
moments  vision  Maggie  discovered  what  so  many  people  of  vaster 
eiperience  both  of  Ufe  and  of  Mrs.  Warlock  had  never  discovered- 
namely  that  the  old  lady  cared  more  for  her  food  than  her  com- 
pany. Maggie  was  suddenly  less  afraid  of  the  whole  family.  She 
looked  up  then  at  Martin  as  though  she  thus  would  prove  her  new 
courage  and,  he  glancing  across  at  the  same  moment,  they  smiled 
He  left  his  father's  side  and,  coming  over  to  her,  sat  down  close 
to  her.  He  dropped  his  voice  in  speaking  to  her. 
"  I've  been  wanting  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"Why?"  she  asked  him. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  her  as  though  he  wanted  to 
ten  her  something  privately.  "  I  feel  as  though  we'd  got  a  lot  to 
tell  one  another.  .  .  .  I'm  a  stranger  here  really  quite  as  much 
as  you." 

"No,  you're  not,"  she  said.  "You  can't  be  so  much  a  stranger 
anywhere  because  you've  been  all  over  the  world  and  are  ready  for 
anything." 

"And  you?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  manage  the  simplest  things.  Aunt  Elizabeth 
and  1  get  lost  the  moment  we  move  outside  the  door  Do 

you  like  my  dress?"  she  asked  him. 

"Why I"  he  said,  obviously  startled  by  such  a  question.  "It's 
—It's  splendid!" 


1 

m 


U8 


THE  CAPTIVES 


No,  ycu  w  it  isn't,"  she  answered  quickly,  dropping  her 
voice  into  a  confidential  statement.  "It's  all  wrong.  I  thought 
you  d  know  why  as  you've  been  everywhere.  Caroline  Smith 
helped  me  to  choose  it,  and  it  looked  all  right  until  I  wore  it.  It's 
m^  .  .  .  I'm  hopeless  to  fit.  Caroline  says  so.  I  don't  care 
about  clothes— if  only  I  looked  just  like  anybody  else  I'd  never 
bother  again— but  it's  so  tireaome  to  have  taken  so  much  trouble 
and  then  for  it  to  be  all  wrong." 

Martin  was  then  aware  of  many  things— that  this  was  a  strange 
unusual  girl,  that  she  reassured  him  as  to  her  interest,  her  vitality 
her  sincerity  as  no  girl  had  ever  done  before,  that  his  sister  was 
aware  of  their  intimate  conversation  and  that  she  resented  it,  and 
that  be  must  see  this  girl  again  and  as  soon  as  possible.  He  was 
as  liable  as  any  young  man  in  the  world  to  the  most  sudden  and 
most  violent  enthusiasms,  but  they  had  been  enthusissms  for  a 
pretty  face,  for  a  sensual  appeal,  for  a  sentimental  moment.  Here 
there  was  no  prettincss,  no  sensuality,  no  sentiment.  There  was 
something  so  new  that  he  felt  like  Cortez  upon  his  peak  in  Darien. 
"  It  s  all  right,"  he  reassured  her  urgently.  "  It's  all  right  I 
promise  you  it  is.  The  great  thing  is  to  look  yourself.  And  you'll 
never  be  the  least  like  any  one  else."  He  meant  that  to  be  the  first 
open  declaration  of  his  own  particular  discovery  of  her,  but  he  was 
aware  that  his  sentence  could  have  more  than  one  interpretation. 
Uncomfortably  conscious  then  of  his  sister's  regard  of  them,  he 
looked  up  and  said: 

"  Amy,  Miss  Cardinal's  been  telling  me  how  confusing  London 
is  to  her.  You've  got  as  good  an  idea  of  London  as  any  one  in  the 
world.  You  should  take  her  to  one  or  two  places  and  show  her 
things." 

Amy  Warlock,  every  line  of  her  stiff  body  firing  at  them  both  her 
hostility,  answered : 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  Miss  Cardinal  would  care  for  me  as  a 
gu"' '  /  shouldn't  be  able  to  show  her  interesting  things.  We 
have  scarcely,  I  should  fancy,  enough  in  common.  Miss  Cardinal's 
interests  are,  I  imagine,  very  different  from  my  own." 

The  tone,  the  words,  fell  into  the  sudden  silence  like  a  lighted 
match  into  water.  Maggie,  her  head  erect,  her  voice,  in  spite  of 
herself,  trembling  a  little,  answered: 

"  Why,  Miss  Warlock,  I  shouldn't  think  of  troubling  you.  It's 
very  kind  of  your  brother,  but  one  must  make  one's  discoveries  for 
oneself,  mustn't  one?  ...  I  am  already  beginning  to  find  my 
way  about." 

After  that  the  tea-party  fell  into  complete  disruption.    Maggie, 


EXPECTATION 


119 


although  ahe  did  not  look,  could  feel  Martin'*  anger  like  a  flame 
beside  her.  She  wag  aware  that  Aunt  Anne  and  Mr.  Warlock 
were,  like  some  beings  from  another  world,  distant  from  the 
general  confusion.  Her  one  passionate  desire  was  to  get  up  and 
leave  the  place;  to  her  intense  relief  she  heard  Aunt  Anne's 
clear  voice: 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Warlock,  we  must  be  turning  homewards.  3hall 
I  send  you  those  papers  about  the  Perteway's  Mission!  .  .  . 
Such  splendid  work.    I  think  it  would  interest  you." 

It  was  as  though  a  hole  had  suddenly  opened  in  the  floor  of  the 
neat  little  drawing-room  and  they  were  all  hurrying  to  leave  with- 
out, if  possible,  tumbling  into  it.  There  was  a  general  shaking  of 
hands. 

Mrs.  Warlock  said  kindly  to  Maggie: 

"  Do  come  soon  again,  dear.  It  does  an  old  lady  good  to  see 
young  faces." 

Martin  was  near  the  door.  He  almost  crushed  Maggie'x  hand 
in  his :  "  I  must  see  you — soon,"  he  whispered. 

Free  from  the  house  Maggie  and  her  aunt  walked  home  in  com- 
plete silence.  Maggie's  heart  was  a  confusion  of  rage,  surprise, 
loneliness  and  pride.  No  one  had  ever  behaved  like  that  to  her 
before.  And  what  had  she  done?  What  was  there  about  her  that 
people  hated!  .  .  .  Why?  .  .  .  Why?  She  felt  as  though,  in 
some  way,  it  had  all  been  Aunt  Anne's  fault.  Why  did  not  Aunt 
Anne  speak  ?  Well,  if  they  all  bated  her  she  would  go  on  her  own 
way.    She  did  not  care. 

But  alone  in  her  room,  her  face,  ind  gnant,  proud,  quivering, 
surprising  her  in  the  long  mirror  by  its  .strangeness,  and  causing 
her  to  feel,  because  it  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  her,  more  lonely 
than  ever,  she  hurst  out : 

"  I  can't  stand  it.  I  can't  stand  it.  I'll  get  away  ...  so  soon 
as  ever  I  can  1 " 


'i  ''I 


CHAPTER  ra 


UAOaiE  AND  UAKTIN 

THAT  moment  in  her  bedroom  altered  for  Maggie  the  courae  of 
all  her  future  life.  She  had  never  before  been,  conacioualy, 
a  rebel;  she  had,  only  a  week  before,  almost  acquiesced  in  the 
thought  that  she  would  remain  in  her  aunts'  house  for  the  rest 
of  her  days;  now  Mr.  Magnus,  the  Warlocks,  and  her  new  dress  had 
combined  to  fire  her  determination.  She  saw,  quite  suddenly,  that 
she  must  escape  at  the  first  possible  moment. 

The  house  that  had  been  until  now  the  refuge  into  which  she 
had  escaped  became  the  jumping-off  place  for  her  new  adventure. 

Until  now  the  things  in  the  house  had  been  there  to  receive  her 
as  one  of  themselves ;  from  this  moment  they  were  there  to  prevent, 
if  possible,  her  release.  She  felt  everything  instantly  hostile.  They 
all — Thomas  the  cat,  Edward  the  parrot,  the  very  sofas  and  chairs 
and  cushions — were  determined  not  to  let  her  go. 

She  saw,  more  than  ever  before,  that  her  aunts  were  preparing 
some  religious  trap  for  her.  They  were  very  quiet  about  it;  they 
did  not  urge  her  or  bully  her,  but  the  subtle,  silent  influence  weit 
on  so  that  the  very  stair-carpet,  the  very  scuttles  that  held  the  coal, 
became  secret  messengers  to  hale  her  into  the  chapel  and  shut  her 
in  there  for  ever.  After  her  first  visit  there  the  chapel  became  a 
nightmare  to  her — because,  at  once,  she  had  felt  its  power.  She 
had  known — she  had  always  known  and  it  had  not  needed  Mr. 
Magn'  3  to  tell  her — that  there  w<u  something  in  this  religion — yes, 
even  in  the  wretched  dirt  and  disorder  of  her  father's  soul — but 
with  that  realisation  that  there  was  indeed  something,  had  come 
also  the  resolved  convictiou  that  life  could  not  be  happy,  simple, 
successful  unless  one  broke  from  that  power  utterly,  refused  its  dic- 
tates, gave  no  hearing  to  its  messages,  surrendered  nothing— abso 
lutely  nothing — to  its  influence.  Had  not  some  one  said  to  her 
once,  or  was  it  not  in  her  little  red  A  KempU,  that  "  once  caught 
one  might  never  escape  again  "  I 

She  would  prove  that,  in  her  own  struggle  and  independence,  to 

be  untrue.    The  chapel  should  not  have  her,  nor  her  father's  ghost, 

nor  the  dim  half-visuaiised  thoughts  and  memories  that  rose  like 

dark  shadows  in  her  soul  and  vanished  again.    She  would  believe 

120 


MAOQIE  AND  MARTIN 


121 


in  nothing  ure  what  ahe  could  aea,  liaten  to  notlinc  that  win  not 
clear  and  limple  before  ber.    She  waa  miatrcH  of  Iter  own  loul. 

She  did  not,  in  thia  faahien,  think  thinse  out  .'or  heraelf.  Tn 
heraelf  ahe  iimply  exprcaaed  it  that  ahe  waa  goinc  'o  lead  her  ovn 
life,  to  earn  her  own  llTing,  to  fight  for  heraelf;  and  that  the 
aooner  ahe  eacaped  thia  gloomy,  damp,  and  ill-tempered  house  tbo 
better.  She  would  never  lay  her  prayera  again;  ahe  would  never 
read  the  Bible  again  to  heraelf  or  any  one  elae;  ahe  would  never 
kneel  on  those  hard  chapel  kneelera  again;  she  would  never  listen 
to  Ur.  Warlock'a  sermons  again— once  ahe  had  escaped. 

Meanwhile  ahe  said  nothing  at  all  to  heraelf  about  Martin  War- 
lock, who  waa  really  at  the  root  of  the  whole  matter. 

She  began  at  once  to  take  atepa.  Two  yean  before  this  a  lady 
had  paid,  with  her  sister,  a  short  visit  to  St.  Dreota  and  h.nd 
taken  a  great  liking  to  Maggie.  They  had  made  frienda,  and  thi^ 
lady,  a  Miss  Katherine  Trenchard,  had  begged  Maggie  to  let  her 
know  if  ahe  came  to  London  and  needed  help  or  advice.  Miss 
Trenchard  divided  her  life  between  London  and  a  place  called 
Oarth  in  Roselands  in  Olebesbire,  and  Maggie  did  not  know  where 
ahe  would  be  now — but,  after  some  little  heaitation,  she  wrote  a 
letter,  apeaking  of  the  death  of  her  father  and  of  her  desire  to 
find  aome  work  in  London,  and  directed  it  to  Oarth. 

Now  of  course  ahe  must  post  it  herself — no  allowing  it  to  lie 
on  the  hall-table  with  old  Martha  to  finger  it  and  the  aunts  to 
speculate  upon  it  and  finally  challenge  her  with  its  destiny. 

On  a  bright  evening  when  the  house  waa  as  dark  as  a  shut  box 
and  an  early  star,  frightened  at  its  irregular  and  lonely  appear- 
ance, suddenly  fiashed  like  a  curl  of  a  golden  whip  across  the  sky, 
Maggie  slipped  out  of  the  house.  She  realised,  with  a  triumphant 
and  determined  nod  of  her  head,  that  ahe  had  never  been  out  alone 
in  London  before — a  ridiculous  and  shameful  fact!  She  knew 
that  there  wr )  a  pillar-box  just  round  the  corner,  but  because  she 
had  a  hat  upon  her  head  and  shoes  upon  her  feet  ahe  thought  that 
ahe  might  as  well  post  it  in  the  Strand,  an  exciling  river  of 
tempestuous  sound  into  which  she  had  as  yet  scarcely  penetrated. 
She  slipped  out  of  the  front  door,  then  waited  a  moment,  looking 
back  at  the  silent  house.  No  one  stirred  in  their  street;  the  noise 
of  the  Strand  came  up  to  her  like  wind  beyond  a  valley  She 
must  have  felt,  in  that  instant,  that  she  was  making  aome  plunge 
into  hazardous  waters  and  she  must  have  hesitated  as  to  whether 
she  would  not  spring  back  into  the  quiet  house,  lock  and  bolt  the 
door,  and  never  go  out  again.  But,  after  that  one  glance,  she  went 
forward. 


m 


THE  CAPTIVES 


She  h.d  new  before  mh«  life  been  on  an,  emnd  .lone,  end 

!li„^n  T".'?*  •"?'  "^  ^"""*  ""  '"y  '"'J-  She  .tood  .till 
clinrng  to  the  ..fe  p,i»,c  of  her  own  .inet  u>d  p«,rZ  oVer 
Into  the  bl.«  and  quiver  of  the  tumult.  In  the  Strtnd  enHf 
her  own  .treet  there  were  Mrer.l  dr.m.tic  egencie..  a  "cond  h.nd 

chicken,  hard-boiled  egg.  and  .ponge  cake,  under  gl...  dome,  in 
the  window;  everywhere  about  her  were  dim  doorl  glimZ!  if 

in  and  out  a.  though  they  were  marionette,  pulled  by  invi.ibk 
.tringi  to  fulfil  .ome  figure.  invi.iDie 

^iJh^-T"  'J'  'V^'  ''"'''  "^  •*■«  'ide-Mreet;  a  large  draper', 
caught  with  It.  front  window,  the  Strand  lamp..  It  wa.  beaide 
^e  .hop  that  Maggie  .food  for  an  in.tant  he.i.'a  ing  She  ^S 
^no  p.  lar-box;  .he  could  «e  nothing  save  the  .tream.  of  h.  Jn 
being,.  ,l,pp,ng  i,ke  „„e,  between  the  bank,  of  hou.e.. 
She  he.itated,  cinging  to  the  draper',  .hop;   then    .uddenlv 

le"t  heZf'tM;''*  "'""•'"'*  "  ^"^  '"^'  dow'n  the'st'rrtX 
i.*!,?.?!  *  '  !.  /  "^r  *"**'y  ttnsation  of  .wimming  in  a  k. 
«  roftbrTht*'.:'!''  ?">.",'»<''"■  f-Kh*  again.t*the  IZ 
Snoed  in  fho  ,  »*  »«•»  •tfa-el't  upon  her  eye.,  found  the  box. 

Jufefquanlr:  Igain"  ""  ''^"'  """"*  "  °"~'  ""  "-"^  »  »- 
She  turned  and.  her  heart  beating,  hurried  home.    The  houae 

Shi  St  ,l7  r  ?'*•  ''*''*  *■"  ''™«  "'thi"  »  fla-iuB  circle. 
She  felt  the  mo.t  audaciou.  creature  in  the  world-and  aUo X 
moat  ignoran  Not  helpIe..-no.  never  helplesa-but  ^  ignorant 
that  all  her  Ufe  that  had  .eemed  to  her,  a  quarter  o^  an  hoi 
ago,  .0  tensely  crowded  with  event,  and  cr  «,  was  now  empty  and 
barren  hke  the  old  .tr.w-smelling  cab  at  home.    She  did  "o   want 

breafmn  *■?'/""'«"'"'  ■""*  '^'"  ^'*""«»'  »•"'  'he  wa,  a  iving 
breathing    independent  creature  and  she  must  go  her  own  way 

chapel  nor  any  one  in  it.  .    "uw    uw 

She  wa,  standing,  motionle.,,  in  the  dark  cold  hall,  wondering 


HAOOIE  AND  MARTIN 


123 


whether  my  one  bad  heard  her  enter,  when  nhe  w»  •uddcnijr  con- 
■eioui  of  two  ejret  that  watched  her— two  iteady  flery  eye«  aui- 
pended  aa  it  leemed  in  mid  air.  She  rcaliied  that  it  wan  the  cat. 
The  cat  bated  her  and  she  hated  it.  She  had  not  realised  that  bo- 
fore,  but  now  with  the  illumination  nf  the  lighted  itreet  behind  her 
the  reiliaed  it.  The  cat  was  the  apirit  of  the  chapel  watching  her, 
•pyinir  upon  her  tc  fee  that  abe  did  not  escape.  The  rat  knew 
that  the  had  posted  her  letter  and  to  whom  she  had  posted  it. 
She  advanced  to  the  bottom  of  the  atair  and  said:  "Brr.  You 
horrid  thinn!  I  bate  you!"  and  instantly  the  two  fiery  eyes  bad 
vanished,  but  now  in  their  place  the  whole  bouae  seemed  to  be 
watching,  ao  silent  and  attentive  was  it — and  the  odour  of  damp 
biscuits  end  wet  umbrellas  seemed  to  be  everywhere. 

Just  then  old  Martha  come  out  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand,  and 
itanding  upon  a  chair,  lit  the  great  ugly  gas  over  the  middle  of 
the  door. 

"Why,  Miss  Maggie,"  she  said  in  her  soft,  surprised  whisper, 
looking  ns  she  always  did.  beyond  the  girl,  into  darkness. 

"  I've  been  out."  said  Moggie,  defiantly. 

"Not  all  alone,  miaai" 

"All  alone,"  said  Maggie.  "Why  not?  I  can  look  after  my- 
■elf." 

"Well,  there's  your  uncle  waiting  in  the  drawing-room— just 
come."  said  the  old  woman,  climbing  down  from  the  chair  with 
that  silent  imperturbable  discontent  that  always  frightened 
Maggie. 

"Uncle  Mathew!  Here!  in  this  house!"  Maggie,  even  in  the 
moment  of  her  first  astonishment,  was  amazed  at  her  own  delight. 
That  she  should  ever  feel  that  about  Uncle  Mathew!  Truly  it 
showed  how  unhappy  she  had  been,  and  she  ran  upstairs,  two  steps 
at  a  time,  nnd  pushed  bock  the  drawing-room  door. 

"  Uncle  Mathew  I "  she  cried. 

Then  at  the  sight  of  bim  she  stood  where  she  was.  The  man 
who  faced  her,  with  all  his  old  confusion  of  nervousness  and 
uneasy  geniality,  was,  indeed,  Uncle  Mathew,  but  Uncle  Mathew 
glorified,  shabbily  glorified  and  at  the  same  time  a  little  abashed 
as  though  she  had  caught  him  in  the  act  of  laying  a  mine  that 
would  blow  up  the  whole  house.  He  was  wearing  finer  clothes  than 
she  had  ever  seen  him  in  before — a  frock  coat,  quite  new  but  fit 
ting  him  badly,  so  that  it  was  buttoned  too  tightly  across  his 
stomach  and  loose  across  the  back.  He  bod  a  white  flower  in  his 
button-hole,  and  a  rather  soiled  white  handkerchief  protruded  from 
his  breast-pocket.     One  leg  of  bis  dark  grey  trousers  had  been 


IM 


TBB  CAPTIVES 


oiieMwJ  n  two  pUew.  ind  tUn  were  little  ipota  of  bkwd  on  hie 
Uch  wlut.  coll.,  beci«e  he  hed  cut  himNi/  J,„i„,.  Hit  com- 
plojiion  W.I  of  the  Mine  old  .upprtHed  purple,  but  hU  little  eye. 
were  bright  .nd  thinin*  and  .ctire;  they  danced  tow.rd.  Umie 

whiter  than  JUaggie  h.d  ever  Men  them. 

But  It  WH.  in  the  end  hi.  attitude  of  confuMd  defiance  th.L 
»ade  be,  p.u«,.    What  had  he  been  doing,  or  what  did  he";.' 

!h„  Si  1     u    *"  ''?*'^."'i'l  '^  ""'''  •«•  "•'  knowing  him  ., 
Jhe  did,  .he  *..  afraid  of  hi.  pro.perity.    She  had  ncwr  in  her 

mi'n":i'r',n  t"''  ".'^  '"''  '""'  ""'  ^  "«•  •  "i^k^  oa 
man-.nd  .till  .he  w..  glad  to  we  him.    He  wa.  an  odd  enough 
ereanire  m  that  room,  and  that,  riie  wa.  aware.  „lea«d  her 
,4i.,.}^  >  ^'  "'«[»'"y  «««>i«lly,  •«  though  they  met  again 

•fte,  an  hour',  parting,  "how  are  you?    I'm  very  glad  to  J  you 

you  up.    I  thought  I  mu.t  look  at  you.    I'm  .taying  ju.t  round  tbo 

ta  .11  that  torn-foolery.     You  bet  die',  keeping  her  head.'     And 
w  you  are.    One  can  we  at  •  glance  " 

that  h.d  geranium,  in  it.    He  put  hi.  arm  round  her,  withhi. 

™«TJl';'?'i"Ti.","*  *""  ■•"  *°  '"''"  '"'  •  moment    then 
patted  her  back  with  hi.  large,  wft  ^..ud 

;;  Your  aunt',  a  long  time.    I've  been  waiting  half  an  hour." 

-.JuT    **°.*°  ""^  meeting."     She  stood  looking  at  him 

uLfl-        u'.."'"'  """fr  ''«°'°  "»"•    H«  »»d  'hought  that 

hi.  clothe,  would  have  .avcd  him  from  that;  hi.  finger,  felt  at  hi. 

button-hole.    Looking  at  him  .he  .aid :  ger.  leii  «t  ni« 

"Uncle.  I  want  to  get  away— out  of  this— at  once     No    thev 

or?t  .»!!!;?  *°  "*•    ^"■"'^  '"'"''  ^^  """^  •''nd-    But  I'm  ;f™id 
of  It  all-of  never  gettmg  out  of  it-and  I  want  to  be  indepen- 

.hi.  "J  :..    .^"^"oPPed  with  a  little  breathless  gasp  because 
InS  *^W^S'^raf1:::ar;:^'  '^^i'-  '"''   °-''  '^"  '"- 

deli:;  i^:^^:j5^;--^^-.  - -w  f— ^  - 

out  of  It.  .   .   .  Trust  me  I"  i"geiyou 

The  door  opened  and  Aunt  Anne  came  in.  She  had  been  nre- 
wlttn""-^"  ^"  h"  ir'or.  and  she  came  forward  to  h7m  IZ 
with  the  dignity  and  kindly  patronage  of  «.me  lady  abbe«  recriv 


MAOOIE  AND  MARTIN 


US 


iat  tlM  miwKant  «nd  boorlth  toImI  of  i  neltthbourinc  rilliire. 
Aad  jret  bow  flnc  ihc  r.,|  Ai  Minie  walclwd  her,  ihe  thought 
of  whit  ihe  would  giw  to  hive  lome  of  that  wlf-commind  ind 
dignity  ind  deciaion.  Wat  it  her  religion  that  gave  her  that  t  Or 
only  her  owa  aelf-Mtiiftction?  No;  there  waa  aomething  behind 
Aunt  Anne,  aomething  atronger  than  the,  aomething  that  Mr. 
Warlock  alto  knew  ...  and  it  waa  thia  aomething  that  Unch 
Mathew  met  with  hit  own  hoalility  *a  he  looked  up  now  it  hia 
aiater  ond  (trcctcd  her: 

"  Why,  Mathew  I  You  never  told  ua.  I  would  hare  hurried  back, 
and  now  Elizabeth.  I'm  afraid,  hat  gone  on  to  tec  tome  friendi. 
She  will  be  to  ditappointed.  But  at  leaat  you've  had  Maggie  to 
entertain  you." 
A  quick  ulance  wat  exchanged  between  uncle  and  niece. 
"  Yet,"  he  taid,  "  we've  had  a  talk,  Anne,  thank  you.  And  it 
doetn't  matter  about  Elizabeth,  becauto  I'm  ttaying  cloae  here  in 
Henrietta  Street,  and  I'll  be  in  again  if  I  may.  I  just  looked 
in  to  atk  whether  Maggie  might  come  and  have  dinner  with  me  at 
my  little  place  to-night.  It't  a  mott  respectable  place— I'll  come 
and  fetch  her.  of  courte.  and  bring  her  back  afterwards." 

Of  courte  Aunt  Anne  could  not  refute,  but  oh  I  how  Maggie  taw 
that  the  wanted  to!    The  battle  that  followed  wos  ailent.    ITnclc 
Mathew'a  eyea  narrowed  themtelvet  to  fiery  maliciout  points;  he 
dropped  tht  m  and  moved  his  feet  reatleatly  on  the  toft  carpet. 
"Quite  retpcctable!  '  lie  repeated. 

Aunt  Anne  tmiled  gently.  "  Why,  of  courte,  Mathew.  I  know 
you'll  look  after  Maprgie.  It  will  be  a  change  for  her.  She'a  been 
having  rather  n  dull  time  here.  I'm  afraid." 

Then  there  wat  silence.  Maggie  wanted  to  speak,  but  the  words 
would  not  come,  and  she  hod  the  curious  sensation  that  even  if 
the  did  find  them  no  one  would  hear  them. 

Then  Uncle  Mathew  suddenly  said  good-bye.  stumbled  over  his 
boots  by  the  door,  ehot  out,  "Seven  o'clock,  Maggie"— and  was 
gone. 

"  Well,  that  will  be  nice  for  you,  Maggie,"  said  Anne,  looking 
at  her. 
" Tea."  taid  Maggie.    "  You  don't  mind,  do  yoi ! " 
"  No  dear,  of  course  not." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do!"  Maggie  broVe  out  deapentely. 
"I  know  Tm  not  satisfying  you  and  yet  you  '  n't  say  anything. 
Do  tell  me^and  I'll  try — anything — almost  anything  ..." 

Then  the  sudden  memory  of  her  own  posted  letter  silenced  her. 
Wat  that  readinett  to  do  "anything"!    Had  that  not  been  rebel- 


M 


126 


THE  CAPTIVES 


lion ?  And  had  she  not  asked  Uncle  Mathew  to  help  her  to  escape! 
The  consciousness  of  her  dishonesty  coloured  her  cheek  with 
crimson.  Then  Aunt  Anne,  veiy  tenderly  put  her  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"  Will  you  really  do  anything— for  me,  Maggie— for  meV  Her 
voice  was  gentle  and  her  eyes  bad  tears  in  them.    "  If  you  will — 

there  are  things  very  close  to  my  heart " 

Maggie  turned  away,  trembling.  She  hung  her  head,  then  with 
a  sudden  movement  walked  to  the  door. 

"  You  must  tell  me,"  she  said,  "  what  you  want.  I'll  try— I  don't 
understand." 

Then  as  though  she  was  aware  that  she  was  fighting  the  whole 
room  which  had  already  almost  entrapped  her  and  that  the  fight 
was  too  much  for  her,  she  went. 

^  When  she  came  to  her  own  room  and  thought  about  her  invita- 
tion she  wished,  with  a  si'dden  change  of  mood,  that  she  had  a 
pretty  frock  or  two.  She  would  have  loved  to  have  been  grand 
to-night,  and  now  the  best  that  she  could  do  was  to  add  her  coral 
necklace  and  a  little  gold  brooch  that  years  ago  her  father  had 
given  her,  to  the  black  dress  that  she  was  already  wearing.  She 
realised,  with  a  strange  little  pang  of  loneliness,  that  she  had  not 
had  one  evening's  fun  since  her  arrival  in  London — no,  not  one — 
and  she  would  not  have  captured  to-night  had  Aunt  Anne  been  able 
to  prevent  it. 

Then  as  her  mind  returned  back  to  her  uncle  she  felt  with  a 
throb  of  excited  anticipation  that  perhaps  after  all  this  evening 
was  to  prove  the  turning-point  of  her  life.  Her  little  escape  into 
the  streets,  her  posting  of  the  letter,  had  been  followed  so  im- 
mediately by  Un''le  Mathew's  visit,  and  now  this  invitation! 

"  No  one  can  keep  me  if  I  want  to  go,"  and  the  old  cuckoo-clock 
outside  seemed  to  tick  in  reply : 
"  Can  no  one  keep  her  if  she  wants  to  go  ? " 
She  finished  her  preparations ;  as  she  fastened  the  coral  necklace 
round  her  neck  the  face  of  Martin  Warlock  was  suddenly  before 
her.    He  had  been  perhaps  at  her  elbow  all  day. 

"I  like  him  and  I  think  he  likes  me,"  she  said  to  the  mirror. 
"  I've  got  one  friend,"  and  her  thought  still  further  was  that  even 
if  he  didn't  like  her  he  couldn't  prevent  her  liking  him. 

She  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  and  found  Uncle  Mathew, 
alcne,  waiting  for  her. 

"  Here  I  am,  Maggie,"  he  said.    "  And  let's  get  ou*  of  this  as 
quick  as  we  can." 
"  I  must  go  and  say  good-night  to  the  aunts,"  she  said. 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN 


127 


She  went  upstairs  to  Aunt  Anne's  bedroom.  Entering  it  was 
always  to  her  like  passing  into  a  shadowed  church  after  the  hot 
sunshine — the  long,  thin  room  with  high  slender  windows,  the 
lor«r  hard  bed,  of  the  most  perfect  whiteness  and  neatness,  the 
;n<n-  bJsck-framed  picture  of  "The  Ascension"  over  the  bed, 
and  the  uU.  stillness  broken  by  no  sound  of  clock  or  bell — evi.ii 
tVf  fire  sten.  a  frozen  into  a  glassy  purity  in  the  grate. 

Her  onnt  iras  sitting,  as  so  often  Maggie  found  her,  in  a  stiff- 
ba>.ii<.J  thar,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  staring  in  front  of  her. 
Her  eyes  were  like  the  open  eyes  of  a  dead  woman;  it  was  as 
though,  with  a  great  effort  of  almost  desperate  concentration,  she 
were  driving  her  vision  against  some  obstinate  world  of  opposi- 
tion, and  the  whole  of  life  had  meanwhile  stayed  to  watch  the 
issue. 

A  thin  pale  light  from  some  street  lamp  lay,  a  faintly  golden 
shadow,  across  the  white  ceiling. 

Maggie  stood  by  the  door. 

"  I've  come  to  say  good-night,  aunt." 

"Ah,  Maggie  dear,  is  that  you?"  The  pale  oval  face  turned 
towards  her. 

"  You  won't  be  very  late,  will  you ! " 

"  Hadn't  I  better  have  a  key,  not  to  bother  Martha? " 

"  Oh,  Martha  won't  have  gone  to  bed." 

Maggie  felt  as  though  her  whole  evening  would  be  spoilt  did  she 
know  that  Martha  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  end  of  it. 

"  Oh,  but  it  will  be  such  a  pity " 

"Martha  will  let  you  in,  dear.  Come  and  kiss  me;  I  hope 
that  you'll  enjoy  yourself." 

And  then  the  strangest  thing  happened.  Maggie  bent  down. 
She  felt  a  tear  upon  her  cheek  and  then  the  thin  strong  arms  held 
her,  for  an  instant,  in  an  almost  threatening  embrace. 

"Good-night,  dear  aunt,"  she  said;  but,  outside  the  room,  she 
had  to  stand  for  a  moment  in  the  dark  passage  to  regain  her  con- 
trol ;  her  heart  was  beating  with  wild  unreasoning  terror.  Although 
she  had  brushed  her  cheek  with  her  hand  the  cold  touch  of  the 
tears  still  lingered  there. 

Outside  the  house  they  were  free.  It  looked  so  close  and  dark 
behind  them  that  Maggie  shivered  a  little  and  put  her  arm  through 
her  uncle's. 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said,  patting  her  hand.  "  We're  going  to 
enjoy  ourselves." 

She  looked  up  and  saw  Martin  Warlock  facing  her.  The  unex- 
pected meeting  held  both  of  them  silent  for  a  moment.    To  her  it 


1S8 


THE  CAPTIVES 


seemed  that  he  had  risen  out  of  the  very  stones  of  the  pavementp 
at  her  bidding,  to  make  her  evening  wonderful.  He  looked  so 
stroug,  so  square,  so  solid  after  the  phantom  imaginations  of  the 
house  that  she  had  left,  that  the  sight  of  him  vas  a  step  straight 
into  the  heart  of  comfort  and  reassurance. 

"  I  was  just  coming,"  he  said,  looking  at  her,  "  to  leave  a  note 
for  Miss  Cardinal — from  my  father—" 

"  She's  in,"  Maggie  said. 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  to  bother  her — only  to  leave  the  note.  About 
some  meeting,  I  think." 

"  We're  just  going  out.    This  is  my  uncle — Mr.  Warlock." 

The  two  men  shuok  hands. 

Mathew  Cardinal  smiled.  His  eyes  closed,  his  greeting  had  an 
urgency  in  it  as  though  he  had  suddenly  made  some  discovery  that 
gratified  and  amused  him.  "Very  glad  to  meet  you — very  glad, 
indeed,  sir.  Ally  friend  of  my  niece's.  I  know  your  father,  sir; 
know  him  and  admire  him." 

They  all  turned  down  the  street  together.  Uncle  Mathew  talked, 
and  then,  quite  suddenly,  stopping  under  a  lamp-post  as  though 
within  the  circle  of  light  his  charm  were  stronger,  he  said: 

"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Warlock,  you  wouldn't  do  me  the  great,  the 
extreme,  honour  of  dining  with  myself  and  my  niece  at  my  humble 
little  inu  to-night?  A  little  sudden— I  hope  you'll  forgive  the  dis- 
courtesy— but  knowing  your  father " 

Martin  looked  straight  into  Maggie's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  please  do ! "  she  said,  her  heart  beating,  as  It  seemed, 
against  her  eyes  so  that  she  dropped  them. 

•'  Well "  he  hesitated.    "  It's  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  Cardinal 

— very  kind.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  going  to  dine  alone  to- 
night— ^just  a  chop,  you  know,  somewhere — if  it's  really  not  incon- 
venient I'll  be  delighted " 

They  walked  on  together. 

As  they  passed  into  Garrick  Street,  she  knew  that  she  had  never 
in  all  her  life  been  so  glad  to  be  with  any  one,  tl  it  she  had  never 
so  completely  trusted  any  one,  that  she  would  like  to  be  with  him 
often,  to  look  after  him,  perhaps,  and  to  be  looked  after  by  him. 

Her  feeling  for  him  was  almost  sexless,  because  she  had  never 
thought,  as  most  girls  do,  of  love  and  the  intrigue  and  coquetry 
of  love.  She  was  so  simple  as  to  be  shameless,  and  at  once,  if  he 
had  asked  her  then  in  the  street  to  marry  him  she  would  have  said 
yes  without  hesitation  or  fear,  or  any  analysis.  She  would  like 
to  look  after  him  as  well  as  herself — there  were  things  she  was 
sure  that  she  could  do  for  him — and  she  would  be  no  burden  to 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN 


129 


him  because  she  intended,  in  any  case,  to  lead  her  own  life.  She 
would  simply  lead  it  with  a  companion  instead  of  without  one. 

He  must  have  felt  as  be  walked  with  her  this  trust  and  sim- 
plicity. She  was  certainly  the  most  extraordinary  girl  whom  he 
had  ever  met,  and  he'd  met  a  number.  .   .    . 

He  could  believe  every  word  she  said;  he  bad  never  known  any 
one  so  direct  and  simple  and  honest,  and  yet  with  that  she  was 
not  a  fool,  as  most  honest  girls  were.  No,  she  was  not  a  fool.  He 
would  have  given  anything  to  be  as  sure  of  himself.  .   .   . 

She  was  plain — but  then  was  she?  As  they  passed  beneath  the 
light  of  a  street  lamp  his  heart  gave  a  sudden  beat.  Ilcr  face  was 
so  good,  her  eyes  so  true,  her  mouth  so  strong.  She  was  like  a 
boy,  rather — and,  of  course,  she  was  dressed  badly.  But  he  wanted 
to  look  after  her.  He  was  sure  that  she  knew  so  little  of  the  world 
and  would  be  so  easily  deceived.  .  .  .  But  who  was  he  to  look 
after  any  one? 

He  knew  that  she  would  trust  him  utterly,  and  trust  him  not 
only  because  she  was  ignorant  of  the  world,  but  also  because  she 
was  herself  so  true.  At  the  thought  of  this  trust  his  heart  sud- 
denly warmed,  partly  with  shame  and  partly  with  pride. 

They  walked  very  happily  along  laughing  and  talking.  They 
turned  into  Henrietta  Street,  misty  with  lamps  that  were  dim  in 
a  thin  evening  fog,  and  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  facing  the 
Square,  was  Uncle  Mathew's  hotel.  It  was  a  place  for  the  use, 
in  the  main,  of  commercial  gentlemen,  and  it  was  said  by  eager 
searchers  after  local  colour,  to  have  retained  a  great  deal  of  the 
Dickens  spirit.  In  the  hall  there  was  a  stout  gentleman  with  a 
red  nose,  a  soiled  waiter,  a  desolate  palm  and  a  large-bosomed  lady 
all  rings  and  black  silk,  in  a  kind  of  wooden  cage.  Down  the 
stairs  came  a  dim  vapour  that  smelt  of  beef,  whisky  and  tobacco, 
and  in  the  distance  was  the  regular  click  of  billiard-balls  and  the 
brazen  muffled  tones  of  a  gramophone. 

Uncle  Mathew  seemed  perfectly  at  home  here,  and  it  was  strange 
to  Haggle  that  he  should  be  so  nervous  with  Aunt  Anne,  his  own 
sister,  when  he  could  be  so  happily  familiar  with  the  powdered 
lady  in  the  black  silk. 

"  We're  to  have  dinner  in  a  private  room  upstairs,"  said  Uncle 
Mathew  in  a  voice  that  was  casual  and  at  the  same  time  important. 
He  led  the  way  up  the  stairs. 

Maggie  had  read  in  some  old  bound  volume  at  home  a  very  grue- 
some account  of  the  "  Life  and  Misdeeds  of  Mr.  Palmer,  the  Ruge- 
ley  Poisoner."  The  impression  that  still  remained  with  her  was 
of  a  man  standing  in  the  shadowy  ball  of  just  such  an  hotel  as 


130 


THE  CAPTIVES 


this,  and  pourmgr  poison  into  a  glass  which  he  held  up  against  the 
light.  This  picture  had  been  vividly  with  her  during  her  child- 
hood, and  she  felt  that  this  must  have  been  the  very  hotel  where 
those  fearful  deeds  occurred,  and  that  the  ghost  of  Mr.  Pahner's 
friend  must,  at  this  very  moment,  be  writhing  in  an  upstairs 
bedroom—"  writhing,"  as  she  so  fearfully  remembered,  bent  "  like 
a  hoop." 
•  a  However,  these  reminiscences  did  not  in  the  least  terrify  her; 

t|  ^^'^  welcomed  their  definite  outlines  in  contrast  with  the  shadowy 

possibilities  of  her  aunts'  house.     And  she  had  Martin  Warlock. 
.   .   .  She  had  never  been  so  happy  in  all  her  life. 

A  dismal  little  waiter  with  a  very  soiled  shirt  and  a  black  tie 
under  his  ear,  guided  them  down  into  a  dark  passage  ai  d  flung 
open  the  door  of  a  sitting-room.  This  room  was  dark  and  sizzling 
with  strange  noises;  a  gas-jet  burning  low  was  hissing,  some  papers 
rustled  in  the  breeze  from  the  half-opened  window,  and  a  fire, 
overburdened  with  the  weight  of  black  coal,  made  frantic  little 
spurts  of  resistance. 

A  white  cloth  was  laid  on  the  table,  and  there  were  glasses  and 
knives  and  forks.  A  highly-coloured  portrait  of  her  late  Majesty 
Queen  Victoria  confronted  a  long-legged  horse  desperately  winning 
a  race  in  which  he  had  apparently  no  competitors.  There  was  a 
wall-paper  of  imitation  marble  and  a  broken-down  book-case  with 
some  torn  paper  editions  languishing  upon  it  Beyond  the  open 
window  there  was  a  purple  haze  and  a  yellow  mist— also  a  bell 
rang  and  carts  rattled  over  the  cobbles.  The  waiter  shut  out  these 
sights  and  sounds,  gave  the  tablecloth  a  stroke  with  his  dirty  hand, 
and  left  the  room. 

They  continued  their  cheerful  conversation,  Martin  laughing  at 
nothing  at  all,  and  Maggie  smiling,  and  Uncle  Mathew  stroking  his 
mouth  and  sharpening  his  eyes  and  standing,  in  his  uneasy  fashion, 
first  on  one  leg  and  then  on  the  other.  Maggie  realised  that  her 
uncle  was  trying  to  be  most  especially  pleasant  to  young  Warlock. 
She  wondered  why;  she  also  remembered  what  he  had  said  to  her 
about  Martin's  father.  ...  No,  he  had  changed.  She  could  not 
follow  his  motives  as  she  had  once  been  able  to  do.  Then  he 
had  simply  been  a  foolish,  drunken,  but  kindly-intentioned  old 
man. 

Then  Mr.  Warlock  on  his  side  seemed  to  like  her  uncle.  That 
was  an  extraordinary  thing.  Or  was  he  only  being  friendly  be- 
cause he  was  happy!  No,  she  remembered  his  face  as  he  had  joined 
them  that  evening.  He  had  not  been  happy  then.  She  liked  him 
the  more  because  she  knew  that  he  needed  help.  .   .   . 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN 


131 


The  meal,  produced  at  last  by  the  poor  little  waiter,  naa  very 
merry.  The  food  was  not  wonderful — the  thick  pea-soup  was  cold, 
the  sole  bones  and  skin,  the  roast  beef  tepid  and  the  apple-tart 
heavy.  The  men  drank  whiskies  and  sodas,  and  Msg^e  noticed 
that  her  uncle  drank  very  little.  And  then  (with  apo'ogies  to 
Mag^e)  they  smoked  cigars,  and  she  sat  before  the  dismal  fire  in 
an  old  armchair  with  a  hole  in  it. 

Martin  Warlock  talked  in  a  most  delightful  way  about  his 
travels,  and  Uncle  Mathcw  asked  him  questions  that  were  not, 
after  all,  so  stupid.  What  had  happened  to  him?  Had  Maggie 
always  undervalued  him,  or  was  it  that  he  was  sober  now  and 
clear-headed?  His  fat  round  thighs  seemed  stronger,  his  hands 
seemed  cleaner,  the  veins  in  his  face  were  not  so  purple.  She 
remembered  the  night  when  he  had  come  into  her  room.  She  had 
been  able  to  manage  him  then.  Would  she  be  able  to  manage 
him  now? 

After  dinner  he  grew  very  restless.  His  eyes  wandered  to  the 
door,  then  to  his  watch,  then  to  his  companions ;  he  smiled  uneasily, 
pulling  his  moustache;  then — jumping  to  his  feet,  tried  to  speak 
with  an  easy  self-confidence. 

"  I  must  leave  you  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  ...  A  matter  of 
business,  only  in  this  hotel.  Downstairs.  Yes.  A  friend  of  mine 
and  a  little  matter.    Urgent.    I'm  sure  you'll  forgive  me." 

For  a  moment  Maggie  was  frightened.  She  was  here  in  a  strange 
hotel  in  a  strange  room  with  a  man  whom  she  scarcely  knew.  Then 
she  looked  up  into  young  Warlock's  face  and  was  reassured.  She 
could  trust  him. 

He  stood  with  his  arm  on  the  shabby,  dusty  mantelpiece,  look- 
ing down  upon  her  with  his  good-natured  kindly  smile,  so  kindly 
that  she  felt  that  he  was  younger  than  she  and  needed  protection 
in  a  world  that  was  filled  with  designing  Uncle  Mathews  and 
mysterious  Aunt  Annes  and  horrible  Miss  Warlocks. 

He,  on  his  side,  as  he  looked  down  at  her,  was  surprised  at  his 
own  excitement.  His  heart  was  beating,  his  hand  trembling — ^be- 
fore this  plain,  ordinary,  unattractive  girll  Unattractive  physi- 
cally— but  not  uninteresting.  One  of  the  most  interesting  human 
beings  whom  he  had  ever  met,  simply  because  she  was  utterly  unlike 
any  one  else.  He  felt  shame  before  her,  because  he  knew  that 
she  would  believe  every  word  that  he  said.  In  that  she  was  simple, 
but  "he  would  be  bothered  if  she  was  simple  in  anything  else." 
8he  had  made  up  her  mind — ^he  knew  it  as  well  as  though  she 
had  told  him — to  trust  him  absolutely,  and  he  knew  well  enough 
how  little  he  woa  to  be  trusted.    And  because  of  that  faith  and 


132 


THE  CAPTIVES 


^^t  "*  ^^  '^"u''*  t'"  *•"'  '^  -"  »»«  "li'ble  than  be 
couldhave  believed  that  changing  fickle  human  being  would  ever 
be.    How  necure  he  might  feel  with  her  I 

hii^r/"'  fl""*  ^^S"^^  *i^\ '"'  '**"^  '•'"'  t""'''«J  te  was  about 
his  life  at  home  during  the  last  weeks.    Amy  hated  him,  his  mother 

AI,  h"1.  kT,  ^"°,-  .■""*  •''''  *''»^"'''  'o™  frightened  him. 
Already  he  had  found  himself  telling  lies  to  aroid  the  chapel 
services  and  the  meetings  with  Thurston  and  the  rest.  His  fathers 
rLIl?  ''"''.'""^"'i"*  t^ritle  in  it,  and,  although  he  returned 
It,  he  could  not  live  up  to  that  fire  and  heat 

h.^V  A  '!r  ^^  ""t  "T"  ""'  •*  «"«  ">  •«'»«in  for  long  at 
wo^IH  1"  u  ^'•'7.^"°'''  '^\'""=''  '°  "^^  "'"l  "ondering  liff  he  • 
r^  i^K-  "^  '' w.*""^  '"""«''  °*  t^»*  ""-J  it»  ■•""^  carelessness 
^olll,  r«  7*""  "  f '•  *■''"  "»"'<'  l*  '»  «««'''  down  with 
f^^h^^l  .1  »  u  '"'"?!  ?**  '•■*  "»"'•'  t*  «'"«y^  interesting,  so 
S  H^t.h^VT''^  "if  "^^'^^  *'''"'  N"  ""'  he  entiiely 
^ctfon  ^l  "^'^''''n^^'.  h"  iporance,  appealed  to  him  for  pro- 
tection. She  had  no  one  but  those  old  aunts  to  care  for  her,  she 
WnTf,,"'^  rebellious  and  ignorant.  Warlock  was  kind-hearted 
beyond  the  normal  charity  of  man-much  of  his  weakness  came 
from  that  very  kindness. 

As  he  saw  which  way  he  was  going  he  tried  to  pull  himself 
back.  He  could  not  protect  her-he  had  the  best  of  reasons  for 
knowing  why.  He  could  do  her  nothing  but  harm  ...  and  yet 
nc  went  on.  •' 

He  took  e  chair  close  to  her  and  sat  down.  He,  who  had  known 
in  his  time  many  women,  could  see  how  happy  she  was.  That 
happiness  excited  him.  Suddenly  he  held  her  hand.  She  did  not 
remove  it, 

"Look  here"  he  began,  and  he  was  surprised  at  the  hoarseness 
of  his  voice,  "your  uncle  will  be  back  in  a  moment,  and  we  never 
have  a  chance  of  being  alone.  I've  wanted  to  talk  to  you  ever  since 
1  nrst  saw  you. 

He  felt  her  hand  move  in  his.  That  stir  was  so  helpless  that 
he  suddenly  determined  to  be  honest. 

"I  think  you'll  trust  me,  won't  you!"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 
_"  Well  you  mustn't,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  his  eyes  on  the  door. 

im  not  worse  I  suppose,  than  other  men,  but  all  the  same  I'm 
not  to  be  trusted.  And  when  I  say  I'm  not  tc  be  trusted  I  mean 
tihat  I  myself  don't  know  whether  I'll  keep  my  word  from  one 
mmute  to  another.  I'm  sure  you  don't  know  very  much  about 
men.    l  could  see  it  at  once  from  the  way  you  spoke." 


MAGGIE  AND  MARTIN  133 

She  looked  up,  her  clear,  unconfused,  unquestioning  eyes  facing 

"I  knew  my  father  well,"  she  said.  "  We  were  quite  alone  for 
years  together.   And  then  Uncle  Mathew " 

"Oh,  your  father,  your  uncle,"  he  answered  quickly.  "They 
don  t  count.  What  I  mean  is  that  you  mustn't  think  men  are 
scoundrels  just  because  they  act  badly.  I  swear  that  nine  out  of 
ten  of  them  never  mean  to  do  any  harm. 

"  And  they  think  they're  speaking  the  truth  at  the  time.  But 
anything  'does'  for  them  and  then  they're  in  a  mess  and  aU 
they  think  about  is  how  to  get  out  of  it.  Then  it's  every  man  for 
himself.  ..." 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

•'/'u%?'"°^^  ''"°""  """  ^'^  ''*^«  '"  manage  for  myself,"  she 
■aid.  Ive  never  expected  any  one  to  do  anything  for  me,  so 
I  m  not  likely  to  be  disappointed  now." 

He  moved  a  little  closer  to  her  and  held  her  hand  more  firmly- 
even  as  he  did  so  something  in  his  heart  reproached  him,  but  now 
the  reproach  was  very  far  away,  like  an  echo  of  some  earlier  voice 
Do  you  know  you're  a  wonderful  girl?"  he  said.  "I  knew 
you  were  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you.  You're  the  most 
independent  person  I've  ever  known.  You  can't  guess  how  I 
admire  that!  And  all  the  same  you're  not  happy,  are  you?  You 
want  to  get  out  of  it,  don't  you?" 

She  thought  for  a  little  while  before  she  nodded  her  head 

"I  suppose  as  a  fact,"  she  said.  "I  do.  If  you  want  to  know 
—and  you  mustn't  tell  anybody— I've  posted  a  letter  to  a  lady 
whom  I  met  once  who  told  me  if  ever  I  wanted  anything  to  write 
to  her.  I've  asked  her  for  some  work.  I've  got  three  hundred 
pounds  of  my  own.  It  isn't  very  much,  I  know,  but  I  could  start 
on  It.  ...  I  don't  want  to  do  wrong  to  my  aunts,  who  are  very 
kind  to  me,  but  I'm  not  happy  there.  It  wouldn't  be  true  to  say 
I  1  happy.  You  see,"  she  dropped  her  voice  a  little,  "  they  want 
to  make  me  religious,  and  I've  had  so  much  of  that  with  father 
already.  I  feel  as  though  they  were  pressing  me  into  it  somehow, 
and  that  I  should  wake  up  one  morning  and  find  I  should  never 
escape  again.  There's  so  much  goes  on  that  I  don't  understand. 
And  It  isn't  only  the  chapel.  Aunt  Anne's  very  quiet,  but  she 
makes  you  feel  quite  helpless  sometimes.  And  perhaps  one  will  get 
more  and  more  hMpIess  the  longer  one  stays.  I  don't  want  to  be 
helpless  ever — nor  religious !  "  she  ended. 

'^Why,  that's  just  my  position."  he  continued  eagerly.  "  I  came 
ho  -c  as  happily  as  anything.    I'd  almost  forgotten  all  that  had 


134 


THE  CAPTIVES 


been  when  I  wu  a  boy,  how  I  was  baptized  and  thought  I  be- 
longed to  God  and  was  so  proud  and  stuck  up.  Th-t  all  seems 
nonsense  when  you're  roughing  it  with  other  men  who  think  about 
nothing  but  the  day's  work.  Then  I  came  home  meaning  to  settle 
down.  I  wanted  to  see  my  gOTemor  too.  I've  always  cared  for 
him  more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world  .  .  .  but  I  tell  you  now 
I  simply  don't  know  what's  going  on  at  home.  They  want  to 
catch  me  in  a  trap.  That's  what  it  feels  like.  To  make  me  what  I 
was  as  a  kid.  It's  strange,  but  there's  more  in  it  than  you'd  think. 
You  wouldn't  believe  the  number  of  times  I've  thought  of  my 
young  days  since  I've  been  home.  It's  as  though  some  one  was 
always  shoving  them  up  in  front  of  my  face.  All  I  want,  you 
know,  is  to  be  jolly.  To  let  other  people  alone  and  be  let  alone 
myself.  I  wouldn't  do  any  one  any  harm  in  the  world — I  wouldn't 
really.  But  it's  as  though  father  wanted  me  to  believe  all  the 
things  he  believes,  so  that  he  could  believe  them  more  himself. 
Perhaps  it's  the  same  with  your  aunt.  ..."  Then  he  added, 
"  But  they're  sick  people.    That  explains  a  lot." 

"Sick!"  asked  Maggie. 

"  Yes.  My  governor's  got  heart — awfully  bad.  He  might  go  off 
at  any  moment  if  he  had  a  shock.  And  your  aunt— don't  you 
know?" 

"  No,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Cancer.    They  all  say  so.    I  thought  you'd  have  known." 

"  Oh !  "  Maggie  drew  in  her  breath.  She  shuddered.  "  Poor 
Aunt  Anne !    Oh,  poor  Aunt  Anne  I    I  didn't  know." 

She  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  confused  emotion.  A  love  for  her 
aunt,  desire  to  help  her,  and  at  the  same  time  shrinking  as  though 
she  saw  the  whole  house  which  had  been,  from  the  first,  unhappy 
to  her  was  now  diseased  and  evil  and  rotten.  The  hot  life  in  her 
body  told  her  against  her  moral  will  that  she  must  escape,  and 
her  soul,  moving  in  her  and  speaking  to  her,  told  her  that  now, 
more  than  ever,  she  must  stay. 

"  Oh,  poor,  poor  Aunt  Anne,"  she  said  again. 

He  moved  and  put  his  arm  around  her.  He  had  meant  it  simply 
as  a  movement  of  sympathy  and  protection,  but  whon  he  felt  the 
warmth  of  her  body  against  his,  when  he  realised  how  she  went 
to  him  at  once  with  the  confidence  and  simplicity  of  a  child, 
when  he  felt  the  hot  irregular  beat  of  her  heart,  his  own  heart 
leapt,  his  arm  was  strengthened  like  a  barrier  of  iron  against  the 
world. 

He  had  one  moment  of  desperate  resistance,  a  voice  of  protest 
calling  to  him  far,  far  away.     His  hp^d  touched  her  neck;  hs 


UAOOIE  AND  MABTIN 


136 


niied  her  ftoe  to  his  and  kiucd  her,  once  gently,  kindly,  then, 
pMiionately  iciin  and  again. 

She  ihirered  a  little,  ai  though  iurrendering  iomething  to  him, 
then  lay  quite  atill  in  his  arms. 

"Maggie I    Uaggie I "  he  whispered. 

Then  she  raised  her  head  and  herself  kissed  him. 

There  was  a  noise  on  the  door.  They  separated;  the  door 
opened  and  in  the  sudden  light  a  figure  was  Tisible  holding  a  glass. 

For  a  blind  instant  Maggie,  returning  from  her  other  world, 
thought  it  the  figure  of  Mr.  Palmer  of  Rugeley. 

It  was,  of  course^  Uncle  Mathew. 


CHAPTER  rV 


MR.  CRASHAW 

UMCLE  MATHEW  mw  M.iggie  bick  to  her  door,  kinad  her 
and  left  her.  On  their  wuy  home  he  did  not  onco  mention 
Martin  Warlock  to  her. 

He  left  her  as  he  heard  the  bolt  turn  in  the  door,  hurrying  away 
ai  though  he  did  not  want  to  be  seen.  Maggie  went  in  to  find 
old  Martha  with  her  crabbed  face  watching  her  sourly.  But  sho 
did  not  care,  nothing  could  touch  her  now.  Even  the  old  woman, 
cross  with  waiting  by  the  fading  kitchen  fire,  noticed  the  light  in 
the  girl's  eyes.  She  had  always  thought  the  girl  bard  and  un- 
gracious, but  now  that  face  was  soft,  and  the  mouth  smiling  over 
its  secret  thoughts,  and  the  eyes  sleepy  with  happiness. 

Maggie  could  have  said:  "I'm  wild  with  joy,  Martha.  I  know 
what  love  is.  1  hri  never  thought  that  it  could  be  like  this.  Be 
!:ind  to  me  because  it's  the  greatest  night  of  my  life." 

Martha  taid:  "There's  some  milk  hotted  for  you,  Mill,  and 
some  biscuits.    There  on  the  table  by  the  stairs." 

"  Oh,  1  don't  want  anything,  Martha,  than'i  you!  " 

"  Your  aunt  said  you  was  to  have  it." 

Maggie  drank  it  down,  Martha  watching  her.  Then  she  went 
upstairs  softly,  as  though  her  joy  might  awaken  the  whole  house. 
She  lay  wide-eyed  on  her  bed  for  hours,  then  fell  into  a  heavy 
sleep,  deep,  without  dreams. 

When,  in  the  quieter  light  of  the  morning,  she  considered  the 
event,  she  had  no  doubts  nor  hesitations.  She  loved  Martin  and 
Martin  loved  her.  Soon  Martin  would  marry  her  and  they  would 
go  away.  Her  aunt  would  be  sorry  of  course,  and  his  father,  per- 
haps, would  be  angry,  but  the  sorrow  and  anger  would  be  only  for 
a  little  while.  Then  Martin  and  she  would  live  happily  together 
always — happily  because  they  were  both  sensible  people,  and  her 
own  standard  of  Sdelity  and  trust  was,  she  supposed,  also  his. 
She  did  not  think  very  deeply  about  what  he  had  said  to  her;  it 
only  meant  that  he  wanted  to  escape  from  his  family,  a  desire  in 
which  she  could  completely  sympathise.  She  had  loved  him,  as  she 
now  saw,  from  the  first  moment  of  meeting,  and  she  would  love 
him  always.  She  would  never  be  alone  again,  and  although  Martin 
had  told  her  that  he  was  weak,  and  she  knew  something  about 
136 


MR.  CRASRAW 


137 


men,  ahe  wai  iwtra  tliit  their  Iot«  for  one  tnotber  would  be  • 
thing  apart,  conatant,  unfaltering,  eternal.  She  hnd  read  no 
modem  fiction;  ihe  knew  nothing  about  paychology:  ahc  waa 
■boolutely  happy.  .   .    . 

And  then  in  that  very  first  day  ahe  diacovered  that  life  waa  not 
quite  ao  aimple.  In  the  first  place,  the  wanted  Martin  deapcratoly 
and  he  did  not  come;  and  although  ahe  had  at  once  a  thousand 
aensible  reasons  for  the  impossibility  of  his  coming,  nevorthclosa 
atrange  new  troubles  and  auspiciona  that  she  had  never  Icnown 
before  rose  in  her  heart.  She  had  only  kissed  him  once;  he  had 
only  held  her  in  his  arms  for  a  few  momenta.  .  .  .  She  waited, 
looking  from  behind  the  drawing-room  curtains  out  into  tha 
atrert.  How  could  he  let  the  whole  day  go  by?  He  was  pre- 
vented, perhaps,  by  that  horrible  sister  of  his.  When  the  dusk 
came  nnd  the  muffin-man  went  ringing  his  bell  down  tiio  street 
ale  felt  exhausted  as  though  she  hod  been  running  for  miles.  .   .   . 

Then  with  sudden  guilty  realisation  of  the  absorption  that  had 
held  her  all  day  she  wondered  how  much  her  aunt  had  noticed. 

During  the  afternoon  when  she  had  been  watching  the  streets 
from  behind  the  curtain  Aunt  Elizabeth  had  sot  sewing,  Thomas 
the  cat  lumped  before  the  fire,  the  whole  room  bathed  in  afternoon 
ailence.  Maggie  bad  watched  as  though  hypnotized  by  the  street 
itself,  marking  the  long  squares  of  light,  the  pools  of  shodow, 
the  lamp-posts,  the  public-house  at  the  comer,  the  little  grocer's 
shop  with  cases  of  oranges  piled  outside  the  door,  the  windows  on 
the  second  floor  of  the  dressmaker's,  through  which  you  could  see 
a  dummy-figure  and  a  young  woman  with  a  pale  face  and  shiny 
black  hair,  who  came  and  glanced  out  once  and  again,  as  though 
to  reassure  herself  that  the  gay  world  was  still  there. 

The  people,  the  horaea  and  carts,  the  cabs  went  on  their  way. 
Often  it  seemed  that  this  figure  must  be  Martin's — now  this — now 
this.  .  .  .  And  on  every  occasion  Maggie's  heart  rose  in  her 
breast,  hammered  nt  her  eyes,  then  sank  again.  Over  and  over 
she  told  to  herself  every  incident  of  yesterday's  meeting.  Always 
it  ended  in  that  same  wonderful  climax  when  she  wos  caught  to  his 
breast  and  felt  his  hand  nt  her  neck  and  then  his  mouth  upon  hers. 
She  could  still  feel  against  her  skin  the  rough  warm  stuff  of  his 
coat  and  the  soft  roughness  of  his  eheek  and  the  stiff  roughness 
of  his  hair.  She  could  still  feel  how  his  mouth  had  just  touched 
hers  and  then  suddenly  gripped  it  as  though  it  would  never  let  it 
go;  then  she  hod  been  absorbed  by  him.  into  his  very  henrt,  so 
that  still  now  she  felt  as  though  with  his  strong  arms  and  bis  hard 
firm  body  he  was  around  her  and  about  her. 


138 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Ob,  ibe  loTcH  himt  she  lorcd  him  I  but  vhy  did  be  not  comet 
Hid  he  been  (ble  only  to  pau  down  the  ilrect  and  tmile  up  to  ber 
window  ai  be  went  that  would  have  ben  lomi-thlnK.  It  would  at 
Icait  have  reauured  her  that  ycitcrdi;  waa  not  a  dream,  en  in- 
Tention,  and  that  be  wai  atill  there  a'ld  tbou^ 't  of  her  and  cared 
for  ber.  .   .   . 

She  pulled  henelf  together.  At  tlie  sound  of  the  muffin-man'a 
bell  ahe  came  back  into  ber  proper  world.  She  would  be  patient; 
•a  ihe  had  once  resolved  outside  Borhcddcn  Farm,  so  now  she 
awore  (hat  she  would  owe  nothing  to  any  man. 

If  she  should  love  Martin  Warlock  it  would  not  be  for  anything 
that  she  expected  to  get  from  him,  but  only  for  the  love  that  she 
had  it  in  her  to  give.  If  good  came  of  it,  well,  if  not,  she  waa 
still  her  own  master. 

But  more  than  ever  now  was  it  impossible  to  be  open  with  her 
aunts.  How  strange  it  was  that  from  the  very  beginning  there 
bad  been  concealments  between  Aunt  Anne  and  herself.  Perhaps 
if  they  had  been  open  to  one  another  at  the  first  all  would  have 
been  well.     Now  it  was  too  late. 

Tea  came  in,  and,  with  tea.  Aunt  Anne.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  day  that  Maggie  had  seen  her,  and  now,  conscious  of  the  news 
that  Martin  had  given  her,  she  felt  b  movement  of  sympathy,  of 
pity  and  affection.  Aunt  Anne  had  been  in  her  room  all  day, 
and  she  seemed  as  she  walked  slowly  to  the  fire  to  be  of  a  finer 
pallor,  a  more  slender  body  than  ever.  Maggie  felt  as  though  she 
could  see  the  firelight  thrrugh  her  b(5dy,  and  with  that  came  also 
the  conviction  that  Aunt  Anne  knew  everything,  knew  about 
Martin  and  the  posted  letter  and  the  thoughts  of  escape.  Maggie 
herself  waa  tired  with  the  trial  of  her  waiting  day.  she  waa  ex- 
hausted and  was  beating,  with  all  her  resolve,  against  a  disappoint- 
ment that  hammered  with  a  thundering  noise,  aomew'  .-r 
away  in  the  recesses  of  her  soul.  So  they  all  drow  a:  r  .'  ' 
fire  and  had  their  tea. 

Aunt  Anne,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  her  beautiful  hands 
Btretchcd  out  on  the  arms,  a  fine  white  shawl  spread  on  her  knees, 
asked  Maggie  about  last  night. 

"  I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourself,  dear." 

"  Very  much.  Aunt  Anne.    Uncle  Mathew  was  very  kind." 

"What  did  you  do!" 

Maggie  flushed.  It  was  deceit  and  lies  now  all  the  time,  and 
oh  I  bow  ahe  hated  lies!    But  she  went  on: 

"  Do  you  know,  Aunt  Anne,  I  think  Uncle  Mathew  is  so  changed. 
He'a  younger  and  everything.     Ht  talked  quite  differently  last 


MR.  CRASHAW 


IW 


ntght,  ibout  hit  bualDfm  and  all  tlut  bt'i  doins.  Ila'i  got  hi* 
mnnry  in  malt  now,  he  lajra." 

"  Whoiw  money  ? "  ailccd  Aunt  Anne. 

"  Itii  own,  he  tayi.  I  never  knew  he  had  any.  But  he  laja 
yet,  it'a  in  malt.    It'a  not  a  nice  hotel,  though,  where  be  lint." 

"Not  nice,  dearl" 

"  No,  I  didn't  lilce  it.    But  it'a  only  for  men  really  of  courie." 

"  I  think  heM  better  take  you  aomewhere  el«e  nrxt  time.  I'll 
apeak  to  him.  By  the  way,  Maggie  dear,  Martha  tella  me  ynn  went 
out  yeatrrday  afternoon  all  alone — into  the  Strand.  I  think  it 
would  be  better  if  you  were  to  tell  ua." 

Mnggie'a  chcekt  were  hot.    She  aet  back  her  ahouldera. 

"How  doea  Martha  know!"  ahe  naked  quickly.  "I  only  went 
for  a  moment — only  for  a  littlo  walk.  But  I'm  grown  up.  Aunt 
Anne.  Surely  I  can  go  out  by  myaelf  if  .  .  ."  ahe  atopped,  look- 
ing away  from  them  into  the  fire. 

"  It  iin't  that,  dear,"  Aunt  Anne  anid  very  gently.  "  It'a  only 
that  you've  been  eo  little  a  time  in  London  that  you  can't  know 
your  way  about  yet.  And  London's  a  strange  place.  It  might  be 
unpleaannt  for  you  alone.    I'd  rather  that  you  told  ua  firat." 

'Then  Maggie  delivered  her  challenge. 

"  But,  aunt,  I  won't  be  always  here.  I'm  going  off  to  earn  my 
living  aoon,  aren't  It" 

Aunt  Elizabeth  drew  her  breath  in  aharply.  Aunt  Anne  iaid 
quietly ; 

"  You  are  free,  dear,  quite  free.  But  whilst  I  am  not  quite 
myaelf — I  don't  want  to  be  selfiah,  dear — but  you  are  a  great  com- 
fort to  ua,  and  when  I  am  atronger  certainly  you  ahall  go  .  .  , 
even  now  if  you  wish,  of  courae  .    .   .  but  my  illnesa." 

Even  as  ahe  apoke — and  it  wae  the  fi'st  time  that  she  had  ever 
mentioned  her  illness — she  caught  at  her  breoat  and  pressed  her 
hand  there  as  though  she  were  in  great  pain.  Maggie  sprang  to 
her  side.  She  caught  the  girl's  hand  with  hers  and  held  her. 
Maggie  could  feel  her  awift  agonized  breathing.  Then  with  a  little 
tigh  the  moment  had  passed.  Maggie  still  knelt  there  looking  up 
into  her  aunt's  face. 

Martha's  voice  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"Mr.  Martin  Warlock,  Miss.    Could  you  see  him?  .   .   ." 

"  Yes,  Martha,"  said  Aunt  Anne,  her  voice  calm  and  controlled. 
"Ask  him  to  come  up." 

She  had  abandoned  so  completely  any  idea  that  he  might  still 
come  that  she  could  not  now  feel  that  it  was  he.  She  withdrew 
from  her  aunt's  side  and  stood  in  the  shadow  against  the  walL 


140 


THE  CAPTIVES 


*!l 


comSu^rwit^'na^r'"'^  -'■"l  "«'  "-*  upon 

the  room  some  voice  cried  i^  h?,  ..  h'  ^"^  '?  '°°°  «'  ^e  entered 
She  did  not  stir  from  h"  wal^but  ?*"  ""?'  "^  "  "'^«'" 
and  then  did  not  move  Hri»«  her  eyes  fastened  upon  him 
yesterday;  his  tie  ™  different  Tt  VT^k^'^'kI^',  ""»«  '^""^  "<> 
dark  blue  He  locked  ouilt-nH  u  ***"  ""f''  ""*  """'  *'  ™s 
His  rough  stiff  ha^  was  caXsrvh^l^'*''^'*  ""''  "'  •■"  ^o^- 
shone  from  his  eyes  L  sS  h L  tl'''^''^"T '  •'°°''-''"«'°"'- 
strength  of  a  man  who  isTbinl',,,.  ^"l  '^*  "'""^y  •""'J 

h/:nrrcetd-H^^t-^-]^^^^^^^^^^^^  He  gave 

she  would  die  ""'  ^"™  »  ""d  "'""e  with  him 

"M^^V"^"""'  "^"""  ■*"""  ■*'>°e- 
very  earlyTo'nfg^ht'  L™"^  FaTh"""^  'ri'  ""^  f '"•    "  ^^'^  -^--^ 

away  over  GoldrG^r^afst'eX're^/t-s'ri:;  ""''"*  "«"* 
from  him  that  I  came  "  '""^""^re-    It  s  really  on  a  message 

on  his  knee,  his  leg  bulging  under  thp  -^-*^  f  •-  "  "'^■'"'°"'°  ^""^ 
struggling  behind  his  coIrXtt^ss't  l'"^*'■°"»"•  ^"  °eck 
he  seemed  perfectly  at  hom^  ^  "*'  P'^*"""'  """^  «««y. 

A:;e^si':L'r:ithtu  tto^rCwi" """  ^"-"^  '"^""^  "^  ^^^ 

especially  afked-troT  t'hem  ""  "^ZiriT'^"'-  '^*  ■"!' 
seems  that  there  will  he  Bnn,M\.;l      't  '  ,    "^'leve.     But  it 

is  always  half  empt '-Z_  X    "''if  ^"L°"^•  ""^  «'  y"'  P^" 
there  seems  nowSe^       "  """''^  '""  ''"«  "^^-^  ««P'  «.at 
Aunt  Anne  graciously  assented. 

but  ttm  the:TirbfrooI"M?r'"'r  •"■"  **  ^-«  -*  "^ 
all.  I  hear.  I  ^'atrdThafh;  Zf^lZ  tX  T''  ^^'« 
bet XSli  J  «;  '-f --  7''H  -.pno-  aid  al.ady 
ever  seen"  He"  mZt  a'^Vndtd""  *''  °""'  '^""'^''  >--*  I'- 
«„  !'  a  great  saint,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 


MB.  CRASHAW 


141 
h^ "rt'^t  :^:^  ""  »<"  -Jo-  •»  -«•■*  talking.    I  dooH  know 

and^^ake  Cea,  his  pf  nsttf /o^hMtd  t  '""'  ''"  ''"^ 

and  cities,  moun  a  Ss.  Hve«  seas  and  f  '"f  T"  T"^  "'"'» 
traversed  by  her,  to  be  learnt  ^nrlt  """^J^ft'  ^at  had  to  be 
for  the  s„«ess  of  this X  „°  t  haTh''"'  ""^  ''■•""'"^^-  '^^ 
aloof  and  firm  and  brive  s"e  ov^'\^i^'  ^Y",  "P'"'  '''"ol-telj 
for  her,  and  meanwhile  he  n^dn^t  W  her  n  ""'*  "^  '"'""'^ 
vision  of  everyday  life.  But  L.T  ^i     •  T°"  '^"'^  '"^ 

now  twice  as  lonely  as  shp"  h.fl  "^''■'/'"'e  "t  hurt.     She  was 

know  what  he  i^^:^  ^'lo'^ttZ^Z^^:^!^^/'^  "»* 

z^^'^nr """  "'^'""-  «^-"irhi\nnrmot:tT 

But  by  next  morning  »he  had  conquered  herself     <?!,.„     u 
h.m  at  Chapel  that  nipht  and  perhaps  h"ve  a  word  ff.lT-  "  "^ 
80  already  she  had  arrived  at  her  nZ  i       .      T     ,     '*  ''""'  «"^ 
aeasons.    There  was  Z  time  W.       J"'  ''^l™''"  °^  <^««<'«  ""-J 
time  after-nTore'r  ttmeTn'thr      '  """"  °*^  "'"'  "■"'  *>- 

fufntrtrt":  a:ntr'&L"es  ^inr;  •■t"^  -' '-"  «'-"- 

of  speaking  aVd^^elling"^  t'm  „"' but  she' Vas\T  T  J\*  ^"^ 
vagueness  of  her  relations  t"  Martin  w!  .1  ^"  ''"'''  '"'  *» 
he  even  love  her?  He  had  onlf  kill^l  ^  "tt**"?  «"«f««^d?  Did 
No.  she  must  wait  hut  wff Wh  •  T^  •''"■  ^«  ''"'^  »«*«'  noting, 
weighing  upl  hf,L\"o\"w  ck  'dllt'LeS";'  "it'  "'t''^''^ 
nothing,  but  wickedness  to  them!!^he  trl?  L  ^b-'^"'  '^'  "'"^ 
pattern  member  of  the  househoirtoil^S.?  "  ^"'^  *"  "^  » 
she  was  told,  closing  dwrs  behind  b/T?  °^*'''  ^''^'ywl'ere  that 
Unhappily  i    was  a  da^of  T^tfl     •  ^.'"^  P""'*""'  ""^  ""^f"'- 


142 


THE  CAPTIVES 


11     'I' 


was  addreseingr  some  envelopes  so  that  some  drops  of  ink  were 
scattered  upon  the  carpet,  and,  in  her  haste  to  be  punct-.al,  she 
banged  her  bedroom  door  so  loudly  that  Aunt  Anne  was  waked 
from  her  afternoon  nap. 

A  scene  followed.  Aunt  Anne  showed  herself  very  human,  like 
any  other  aunt  justly  exasperated  by  any  other  niece. 

"I  sometimes  despair  of  you,  Maggie.  You  will  not  think  of 
others.  I  don't  wish  to  be  hard  or  unjust,  but  selfishness  is  the 
name  of  your  greatest  weakness." 

Maggie,  standing  with  her  hands  behind  her,  a  spot  of  ink  on 
her  nose  and  her  short  hair  ruSed,  was  hard  and  unrepentant. 

"You  must  send  me  away,"  she  said;  "I'm  not  a  success  here. 
Tou  don't  like  me." 

Aunt  Anne  looked  at  Maggie  with  eyes  that  were  clear  and  cold 
like  deep  unfriendly  waters.  "You  mustn't  say  that.  We  love 
you,  but  you  have  very  much  to  learn.  To-night  I  shall  speak 
to  Miss  Avies  and  arrange  that  you  go  to  have  a  talk  with  her 
sometimes.  She  is  a  wise  woman  who  knows  many  things.  My 
sister  and  I  are  not  strong  enough  to  deal  with  you,  and  we  are 
weakened  perhaps  by  our  love  for  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to-night,"  Maggie  said,  then  she  burst  out: 
"Oh,  can't  I  lead  an  ordinary  life  like  other  girls — be  free  and 
find  things  out  for  myself,  not  only  go  by  what  older  people  tell 
me — earn  my  living  and  be  free?    I've  never  lived  an  ordinary 

life.    Life  with  Father  wasn't  fair,  and  now " 

Aunt  Anne  put  out  her  arm  and  drew  her  towards  her.  "  Poor 
Maggie.  .  .  .  Aren't  you  unfair  to  ust  Do  you  suppose  really 
that  we  don't  love  you?  Do  you  think  that  I  don't  understand! 
You  shall  be  free,  afterwards,  if  you  wish — perfectly  free — but  you 
must  have  tie  opportunity  of  learning  what  this  life  is  first,  what 
the  love  of  God  is,  what  the  companionship  of  Him  is.  If  after 
you  have  seen  you  still  reject  it,  we  will  not  try  to  keep  you.  But 
it  is  Qod's  will  that  you  stay  with  us  for  a  time." 

"How  do  you  know  that  it  is  God's  will?"  asked  Maggie,  melted 
nevertheless,  as  she  always  was  by  any  sign  of  affection. 

"He  has  told  me,"  Aunt  Anne  answered,  and  then  closed  her 
eyes. 

Maggie  went  away  with  a  sensation  of  being  tracked  by  some 
stealthy  mysterious  force  that  was  creeping  ever  closer  and  closer 
upon  her,  that  she  could  only  feel  but  not  see.  For  instance,  she 
might  have  said  that  she  would  not  go  to  Chapel  to-night,  and  she 
might  have  taken  her  stand  upon  that.  And  yet  she  could  not 
say  tVat.    Of  course  she  must  go  because  she  must  see  Martin, 


MR.  CHASHAW 


143 


bnt  even  if  ahe  had  known  that  he  would  not  be  there  she  would 
have  gone.  Was  it  curiosity?  Was  it  reminiscence?  Was  it 
superstition?  Was  it  cowardice?  Was  it  loneliness?  All  these 
things,  perhaps,  and  yet  something  more  than  they. 

All  thr->ugh  the  afternoon  of  the  lovely  November  day  she  antici- 
pated  that  evening's  services  as  though  it  were  in  some  way  to  be 
a  climax.  She  knew  that  it  was  to  be  for  all  of  them  an  especial 
affair  She  had  heard  during  the  last  days  much  discussion  of  old 
Mr.  Crashaw.  He  was  an  old  man  with,  apparently,  a  wonderful 
history  of  conversions  behind  him.  His  conversions  had  been  it 
seemed,  of  the  forcible  kind,  seizing  people  by  the  neck  and  shov- 
ing them  m;  he  was  a  fierce  and  militant  kind  of  saint;  he  be- 
lieved. It  seemed,  in  damnation  and  eternal  hell  fire,  and  could 
make  you  believe  in  them  too;  his  accent  was  on  the  tortures  rather 
than  the  triumphs  of  religion. 

But  Maggie  had  other  thoughts,  in  this,  outside  Mr.  Crashaw. 
bhe  had  never  lost  the  fo,  a  of  that  first  meeting  with  Mr.  War- 
lock; she  had  avoided  him  simply  because  she  vas  afraid  lest  ho 
should  influence  her  too  much,  but  now  after  her  friendship  with 
Martin  she  felt  that  she  could  never  meet  old  Mr.  Warlock  frankly 
again.  What  he  would  say  to  her  if  he  knew  that  she  meant  to 
take  his  son  away  from  him  she  knew  well  enough.  On  every 
side  there  was  trouble  and  difficulty.  She  could  not  see  a  friend 
anywhere  unless  it  was  Caroline,  whom  she  did  not  completely 
trust,  and  Mr.  Magnus,  whom  her  deception  of  her  aunt  would, 
she  knew,  most  deeply  distress.  Meanwhile  she  was  being  pushed 
forward  more  and  more  into  the  especial  religious  atmosphere  of 
the  house,  the  Chapel  and  the  Chapel  sect.  Of  no  use  to  tell  her- 
self that  this  was  only  a  tiny  fragment  of  the  whole  world,  that 
there,  only  five  yards  away  from  her,  in  the  Strand,  was  a  life 
that  swept  past  the  Chapel  and  its  worshippers  with  the  utmost, 
completest  indifference.  She  had  always  this  feeling  that  she  was 
caught,  that  she  could  only  escape  by  a  desperate  violent  effort 
that  would  hurt  others  and  perhaps  be,  for  herself,  a  lasting  re- 
proach. She  wanted  so  simple  a  thing  ...  to  be  always  with 
Martin,  working,  with  all  this  confusing,  baffling,  mysterious  re- 
ligion behind  her;  this  simple  thing  seemed  incredibly  difficult  of 
attainment. 

Nevertheless,  when  they  started  that  evening  for  the  Chapel  she 
f?lt,  in  spite  of  herself,  a  strange  almost  pleasurable  excitement 
rhere  was,  in  that  plain,  ugly  building  some  force  that  could  not 
be  denied.  Was  it  the  force  of  the  worshippers' belief  ?  Was  it  the 
force  of  some  outside  power  that  watched  ironically  the  efforts  of 


144 


THE  CAPTIVES 


those  poor  human  beings  to  discover  it?  Was  it  the  love  of  a 
father  for  his  children?  No,  there  was  very  little  love  in  this 
creed — no  more  than  there  had  been  in  her  father's  creed  before. 
As  she  walked  along  between  her  aunts  her  brain  was  a  curious 
jumble  of  religion,  Martin,  and  how  she  was  ever  going  to  learn  to 
be  tidy  and  punctual. 

"  Well,  I  won'  care,"  was  the  resolution  with  which  she  always 
brought  to  an  end  her  discussions  and  misgivings.  "  I'm  myself. 
Nobody  can  touch  me  unless  I  let  them." 

It  was  a  most  lovely  evening,  very  pale  and  clear  with  an  orange 
light  in  the  sky  like  the  reflection  uf  some  far  distant  towering 
fire.  The  air  was  still  and  the  rumble  of  the  town  scarcely  pene- 
trated into  their  street ;  they  cculd  hear  the  ugly  voice  of  the  little 
Chapel  bell  jangling  in  the  heart  of  the  houses,  there  was  a  scent 
of  chrysanthemums  from  somewhere  and  a  very  faint  suggestion 
of  snc  ' — even  before  they  reached  the  Chapel  door  a  few  flakes 
lazily  began  to  fall. 

Maggie  was  thinking  now  only  of  Martin.  There  was  a  gas- 
lamp  already  lighted  in  the  Chapel  doorway,  and  this  blinded  her 
eyes.  She  had  hoped  that  he  would  be  there,  waiting,  so  that  he 
might  have  a  word  with  her  before  they  went  in,  but  when  they 
were  all  gathered  together  under  the  porch  she  saw  with  a  throb 
of  disappointment  that  be  was  not  there.  She  saw  no  one  whom 
she  knew,  but  it  struck  her  at  once  that  here  was  a  gathering  quite 
different  from  that  of  the  first  time  that  she  had  come  to  the 
Chapel.  There  seemed  to  be  more  of  the  servant  class;  rather  they 
were  older  women  with  serious  rapt  expressions  and  very  silent. 
There  were  men  too,  to-night,  four  or  five  gathered  together  inside 
the  passage,  standing  gravely,  without  a  word,  not  moving,  like 
statues.  Maggie  was  frightened.  She  felt  like  a  spy  in  an  enemy's 
camp,  and  a  spy  waiting  for  an  inevitable  detection,  with  no  hope 
of  securing  any  news.  As  she  went  up  the  aisle  behind  her  aunts 
her  eyes  searched  for  Martin.  She  could  not  see  him.  Their  seat 
was  close  to  the  front,  and  already  seated  in  it  were  the  austere 
Miss  Avies  and  two  lady  friends. 

Maggie  was  maliciously  pleased  to  observe  that  Miss  Avies  had 
not  expected  these  additions  to  her  number  and  was  now  in  danger 
of  an  uncomfortable  squashing;  there  was,  indeed,  a  polite  little 
struggle  between  Mi'^s  Avies  and  Aunt  Anne  as  to  who  should  have 
the  comer  with  a  wooden  arm  upon  which  to  rest.  Miss  Avies* 
two  friends,  huddled  and  frightened  like  fledglings  suddenly  sur- 
prised by  a  cuckoo,  stirred  Maggie's  sympathy.  She  disliked  Miss 
Avies  from  the  very  first  moment.    Miss  Avies  had  a  pale,  thin. 


MR.  CRASHAW  145 

pointed  face  with  no  eyebrows,  grey  eyes  dim  and  short-sighioH 

thitllhn,?!!"'  *''°%'''*  ""'  ""™"'-  emotional,  restless;  somc- 
de  sVer  ev«"sh'  "'"T  '""""fr''"  "P''  <>"  hands,  he    shoul- 
»„  L;    ^t'    S''\^"l''erce  and  hostile  and  ineffectual,  one  fcl 
so  long  as  she  was  by  herself     Maiwrio  A\^  „„.    ^t  ■ 

all  thi'Q  at  tk=  .! i  ".'•";    JHogg'e  rtid  not,  of  course,  nut  co 

the  n,L  J-  1-  ui  ''"•  '"  "'"■'■  y™"  ^^^  ^'"".vs  looked  hack  on 
the  pale   thin,  h.ghly-strung  Miss  Avies  as  the  motive  of  most  of 

re,„lt  11      M  V^   r'^*"'  ""'  """"K''  '"  !*"<■"'  to  effect  any 

resul  ,  when  thrown  into  the  balance  just  turned  everything  [n  one 
direction.    It  had  that  result,  at  any  rate,  upon  Maggie  Kf 

She  soon  lost,  however,  consideration  of  Miss  Avies  in  the  w  dcr 
observation  of  the  Chapel  and  its  congregation.  It  was  as  irw 
been  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit I0  it.  stuffy  smelling  if  ga 

nessiTnH""'*  "Tr^  "°°'':  "«'y  '"  "'  '"'"''««'  <""i  unresponsive 
Z^,  f '  '"'^•'^''tl^'.  «<^L*i"K-  The  interior  of  the  building  had 
the  air  of  one  who  has  watched  some  most  unusual  happening  and 

seeSt'oTri^kT^'it*"  ""n!?'  "'^■"  .««"-•  ^vcn  the'ha^fnium 
seemed  to  prick  up  its  wooden  ears  in  anticination  AnH  tr.  „i„i,f 
^e  congregation  thrilled  also  with   brerthfesl  expectation     t 

t^rohhL  >K  T"^  ■"?""  '^'"^  '^^  »"W  ^  «h«t  they  were 
throbbing  with  the  anticipation  of  some  almost  sensuous  deli^hT 
By  now  they  had  filled  the  Chapel  to  its  utmost  limits  but  iere 
was  not  one  human  being  there  who  did  not  seem  to  have  th^ 

e's'r; W:n  t-'"^  'r  ""^"-"^  ^'-'^■^  fro3,er  lessTntlr 
estmg  human  beings.  It  was  not  that  the  forces  that  surround^ 
her  were  especially  interesting,  but  she  felt  that  all  of  t"em  had 
taken  on  some  especial  dramatic  character  from  the  occasion 
Such  personalities  as  Aunt  Anne  and  Miss  Avies  were  in  ly  ea» 

rel^nd  MrsT^-lb  '"'I  '"■"'^''^  4-*  Elizabeth  and  th"  plIcW^ 
rotund  Mrs.  Smith,  who  was  sitting  in  the  front  row  with  her 
mouth  open  and  simple  little  Miss  Pyncheon,  Aunt  Anne"  friend 
were  remarkable  and  exceptional.  iriena, 

Then  suddenly  Maggie  caught  sight  of  Martin.    He  wao  ,itti„„ 

to  him  Maggie  could  only  see  his  head  and  shoulders  b,,t  .^ 
realised  at  once  that  he  had  been,  for  a  long  time  S  t„  1  ch 

^Zu":.?'.-'^'^'^^'  •■"  ""  '"t™"**-  P^.^r'sSe^hat  s  n^ 
the  blood  flooding  to  her  face  and  made  her  heart  beat  wi  h  hapnT 
ness.  At  the  moment  of  her  smiling  she  realised  tha  l.,  A^^^ 
dim  eye  was  upon  her.    What  right  had  Miss  Avies  to  watch  ov?. 


'11 
11 


146 


THE  CAPTIVES 


herl  She  set  back  her  shoulders,  sat  up  stiffly,  and  tried  to  look 
as  old  as  she  might — that  was  not,  unhappily,  very  old.  That 
smile  exchanged  with  Martin  had  made  her  happy  for  ever.  Miss 
Avies  was  of  less  than  no  importance  at  all.  .   .    . 

The  little  bell  ceased  its  jangling,  the  harmonium  began  a 
quavering  prelude,  and  from  a  door  at  the  back,  behind  the  little 
platform  and  desk,  three  men  entered:  first  Mr.  Thurston;  then  a 
little  crooked  man  who  must,  Maggie  knew,  be  Mr.  Crashaw; 
finally,  in  magnificent  contrast,  Mr.  Warlock.  A  quiver  of  emotion 
passed  over  the  Chapel— there  was  then  a  hushed  expectant  pause. 
"  Brothers  and  sisters,  let  us  pray,"  said  Mr.  Thurston. 
Maggie  had  not  seen  him  before;  she  wondered  what  strange 
chance  had  led  him  and  Mr.  Warlock  to  work  together.  In  every 
movement  of  the  body,  in  every  tone  of  the  voice,  Thurston  showed 
the  professional  actor — his  thoughts  were  all  upon  himself  and  the 
effect  that  he  was  making.  So  calculated  was  he  in  his  attitude 
that  his  eyes  betrayed  him,  having  in  their  gleam  other  thoughts, 
other  intentions  very  far  away  from  his  immediate  business  in  the 
Chapel.  Maggie,  watching  him,  wondered  what  those  thoughts 
were.  His  voice  was  ugly,  as  were  all  his  movements;  his  sharp 
actor's  face,  with  the  long  rather  dirty  black  hair,  the  hooked  nose. 
the  long  dirty  fingers  which  moved  in  and  out  as  though  they 
worked  of  themselves — all  these  things  were  false  and  unmoving. 
But  behind  his  harsh  voice,  gross  accent  and  melodramatic  tone 
there  was  some  power,  the  power  of  a  man  ambitious,  ruthless, 
scornful,  self-confident.  He  did  not  care  a  snap  of  his  fingers  for 
his  congregation,  he  laughed  at  their  beliefs,  he  made  use  of  their 
credulity. 

"  Oh  God,"  he  prayed,  his  voice  now  shrill  and  quivering  and 
just  out  of  tune,  so  that  it  jarred  every  nerve  in  Maggie's  body, 
"Thou  Boest  what  we  are,  miserable  sinners  not  worthy  of  Thy 
care  or  goodness,  sunk  deep  in  the  mire  of  evil  living  and  evil 
"abits,  nevertheless,  oh  God,  we,  knowing  Thy  loving  'eart  towards 
Thy  sinful  servants,  do  pray  Thee  that  Thou  wilt  give  us  Thy 
blessing  before  we  leave  this  Thy  'ouse  this  night;  a  new  contrite 
'eart  is  what  we  beg  of  Thee,  that  we  may  go  out  into  this  evil 
world  taught  by  Thee  to  search  out  our  ways  and  improve  our 
thoughts,  caring  for  nothing  but  Thee,  following  in  Thy  footsteps 
and  making  ready  for  Thy  immediate  Coming,  which  will  be  in 
Thine  own  good  time  and  according  to  Thy  will. 

"  This  we  pray  for  the  sake  of  Thy  dear  Son,  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  who  died  for  our  sins  upon  the  bloody  Cross. 


MR.  CRASHAW 


147 


From  between  her  hands  Maggie  watched  thow  two  itrange  eyes 
wandering  about  the  Chapel,  picking  up  here  a  peraon.  there  a 
person,  wondering  over  this,  wondering  OTer  that,  and  always,  in 
the  end,  concerned  not  about  these  things  at  all  but  about  some 
other  more  ultimate  lonelinew,  fear  or  expectation,  something  that 
set  him  opart  and  made  him,  as  are  all  men  in  the  final  recesses  of 
their  spirit,  as  lonely  as  though  he  were  by  himself  on  a  desert 
islnnd. 

The  thrill  of  anticipation  faded  through  the  Chapel  aa  Thurston 
continued  his  prayer.  He  had  not  to-night,  at  any  rate,  power  over 
his  audience— the  thing  that  they  were  waiting  for  was  Komething 
that  he  could  not  satisfy.  A  restlessness  was  abroad:  coughing 
broke  out  once,  twice,  then  everywhere;  chairs  creaked,  sighs  could 
be  heard,  some  one  moved  to  the  door.  Thurston  seemed  to  realise 
his  failure;  with  a  sudden  snap  of  impatience  he  brought  praver 
to  an  end  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Yf  .."'ll  ""ft"  he  said,  ••  No.  341.  '  Bathed  in  the  blood  of  the 
Lamb.   ' 

The  singing  of  the  hymn  roused  the  excitement  of  the  congre- 
gation to  even  more  than  its  earlier  pitch.  The  tune  was  a  moving 
one.  beginning  very  softly,  beseeching  God  to  listen,  then,  more 
confident,  rising  to  a  high  note  of  appeal: 

By  all  Thy  sores  and  bloody  pain 
Come  down  and  heal  our  sins  again ; 

falling,  after  that,  to  a  note  of  confidence  and  security  in  the  last 
refrain : 

By  the  blood,  by  the  blood,  by  the  blood  of  the  Lamb 
We  beseech  Thee 

In  spite  of  the  crudity  of  the  words  and  the  simplicity  of  the 
tune  Maggie  had  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  whole  Chapel  was  singing 
now,  smpng  as  though  the  sins  of  the  world  could  be  redeemed 
only  by  the  force  and  power  of  this  especial  moment.  Maggie  was 
caught  up  with  the  rest.  She  found  herself  singing  parts  of  the 
second  verse,  then  in  the  third  she  was  carried  away,  had  forgotten 
herself,  her  surroundings,  even  Martin.  There  was  something  real 
in  this,  something  beyond  the  ugliness  of  the  Chapel  and  its  con- 
gregation. She  remembered  what  Mr.  Magnus  had  said-  "If 
there's  something  of  great  value,  don't  think  the  less  of  it  because 
the  people,  including  yourself,  who  admire  it,  aren't  worth  verv 
much.    Why  should  they  be?"  ^ 


148  THE  CAPTIVES 

She  looked  for  a  momeat  at  Aunt  Anne  and  saw  her  in  an 
ecaUij,  aiaging  in  her  cracked  tuneleaa  roice,  a  smile  about  her 
lipa  and  in  her  eyes,  that  gazed  far,  far  beyond  that  Chapel. 
MagF>e  felt  the  approach  of  tuara;  ahe  atnpped  ainging— aofti;  the 
refrain  of  the  laat  Toriie  came: 

By  the  blood,  by  the  blood,  by  the  blood  of  the  Lamb 
We  beseech  Thee  I 

The  hymn  over,  Mr.  Warlock  read  the  Bible  and  then  offered  up 
a  long  extempore  prayer.  Strangely  enough  Mr.  Warlock  brought 
Mareie  back  to  reality— strangely  because,  on  an  earlier  occasion, 
.e  had  done  exactly  the  opposite.  She  realised  at  once  that  he 
was  not  happy  to-night.  Before,  he  had  been  himself  caught  up 
into  the  mood  that  held  the  Chapel;  to-night  he  was  fight- 
ing againat  a  mood  that  wa»  then  outside  him,  a  mood  with 
■which  ha  did  not  sympathiau  mid  in  which  he  could  not  be- 
lieve. 

She  aaw  that  he  was  unhappy,  he  spoke  slowly,  without  the 
spontaneity  and  force  that  he  had  used  before;  once  he  made  a 
long  pause  and  you  could  feel  throughout  the  Chapel  a  wave  of 
nervous  apprehension,  as  though  every  one  were  waiting  to  see 
whether  he  would  fight  his  way  through  or  not.  Maggie  felt  her 
earlier  emotion  sentimental  and  false,  it  was  as  though  he  had 
said  to  her:  "But  that's  not  the  true  thing;  that's  cheap  sham 
emotion.  That's  what  they're  trying  to  turn  our  great  reality  into. 
I'm  fighting  them  and  you  must  help  me." 

He  wa»  fighting  them.  She  could  imagine  Mr.  Thurston's  scorn- 
ful lip,  hidden  now  by  his  hands.  As  Mr.  Warlock  went  on  with 
his  dignified  sentences,  his  restraint  and  his  reverence,  she  could 
fancy  how  Thurston  was  saying  to  himself:  "  But  what's  the  good 
of  this  I  It's  blood  and  thunder  we  want.  The  old  feller's  getting 
past  his  work.    He  must  go." 

But  it  was  Mr.  Warlock's  reality  of  which  she  was  afraid.  As 
he  continued  his  prayer  she  felt  all  her  old  terror  return,  that 
terror  that  she  had  known  on  the  night  her  father  died,  during 
the  hours  that  she  had  watched  beside  his  dead  body,  at  the 
moment  when  she  had  first  arrived  at  the  house  in  London,  during 
her  first  visit  to  the  Chapel,  when  she  had  said  good-night  to  her 
aunt  before  going  out  with  Uncle  Mathew.  .  .  .  And  now  Mr. 
Warlock  was  sweeping  her  still  farther  inside.  The  intensity  of 
his  belief  farced  hers.  There  ii«m  something  real  in  this  power  of 
God,  and  you  could  not  finish  with  it  simply  by  disregarding  it. 


MR.  CRASIIAW 


149 


She  felt,  a*  the  had  felt  to  often  lately,  that  soin«  one  wu  aHd- 
Henly  Koinir  to  riiie  and  demand  dome  onth  or  promimi  from  her 
that  nhe.  in  her  panic,  would  give  her  word  and  thrn  would  be 
caught  for  ever. 

"  By  the  love  of  Thy  dear  Son.  Our  Lord  Jesus  Cliri«t,  and  by 
the  promlne  of  Thy  second  coming,  wo  bencoch  Thee"  .  .  .  6n- 
ished  Mr.  Warlock. 

During  all  this  time  the  atmosphere  of  the  Chapel  '.lad  been 
growing  hotter  and  hotter  and  closer  and  closer.  It  had  always 
its  air  of  being  buried  deep  under  ground,  bathed  in  a  kind  of 
sunken  heat  that  found  its  voice  in  the  gas  that  hissed  am!  sizzled 
overhead:  nenr  the  door  was  a  long  rail  on  which  coata  might  be 
hung,  and  now  these  garments  could  be  seen,  swaying  a  little  to 
and  fro,  like  corpses  of  condemned  men. 

The  bare  ugliness  of  the  building  with  its  stone  walls,  its  rows 
of  wooden  seats,  its  grey  windows,  its  iron-hung  gas-lamps,  its 
ugly  desk  and  platform,  was  veiled  now  in  a  thin  steaming  heat 
that  rose  mistily  above  the  heads  of  the  kneeling  congregation  and 
seemed  to  hide  strange  shapes  anil  shadows  in  its  shifting  depths. 
Kvery  one  was  swimming  in  an  uncertain  world:  the  unreality  grew 
with  the  heat.  Maggie  herself,  at  the  end  of  Mr.  Warlock's  prayer, 
felt  that  her  test  of  a  real  solid  and  unimaginative  «orld  was 
leaving  her.  She  was  expectant  like  the  rest,  as  ready  to  believe 
anything  nt  all. 

Out  of  the  mist  rose  Mr.  Crashaw.  This  was  a  little  old  man 
with  a  crabbed  face  and  a  body  that  seemed  to  have  endured  in- 
fernal twistings  in  some  Inquisitioaer's  torture-chamber.  Maggie 
learnt  afterwards  that  he  had  suffered  for  many  years  from  intoler- 
able rheumatism,  but  to-night  the  contortions  and  windings  of  the 
body  with  which  he  climbed  up  onto  the  platform,  and  then  the 
grimaces  that  he  made  as  his  large  round  head  peered  over  the  top 
of  the  desk,  might  have  struck  any  less  solemn  assemblage  as  farci- 
cal. He  wore  an  old  shiny  black  frock  coat  and  a  white  rather 
grimy  tie  fastened  in  a  sharp  little  bow.  His  face  was  lined  like 
a  map,  his  cheeks  seamed  and  furrowed,  his  forehead  a  wilderness 
of  marks,  his  scanty  hair  brushed  straight  back  so  that  the  top 
of  his  forehead  seemed  unnaturally  shiny  and  bald;  his  hands,  with 
which  he  clutched  the  side  of  his  desk,  were  brown  and  wrinkled 
and  grasping  like  a  monkey's.  His  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a 
fanatic,  but  they  were  not  steady  and  speculative  like  Warloik's 
or  glowing  and  distant  like  Aunt  Anne's,  but  rather  angry  cud 
restless  and  pugnacious;  they  were  the  eyes  of  a  madman,  but  of 
a  madman  who  can  yet  calculate  upon  and  arrange  his  position  in 


150 


THE  CAPTIVES 


the  world.    He  wm  mad  for  hia  own  purpoeea,  and  could,  for  Umm 
•ame  purpoeea,  bind  hia  madneaa  to  its  proper  bound). 

He  aeemed  to  Maggie  at  first  rather  pathetic  with  hit  little 
twiated  body  and  hia  large  round  head.  Very  aoon  it  waa  emotiona 
quite  other  than  pity  that  the  waa  feeling.  She  aaw  at  once  that 
he  waa  a  practiaed  preacher,  and  ahe  who  had,  with  the  exception 
of  Mr.  Warlock,  never  heard  a  fine  preacher,  wat  at  once  under 
the  tway  of  one  of  the  ablett  and  moat  dramatic  orttort  of  hit 
time.  Hia  voice  waa  awcet  and  clear,  and  aeemed  atrange  enough 
coming  from  that  ugly  and  malevolent  countenance.  Only  the  head 
and  the  graaping  handa  could  be  aeen,  but  aomettmet  the  inviaible 
body  wat  driven  with  tuch  force  againtt  the  deak  that  it  aeemed 
that  it  muBt  fling  the  thing  over,  down  into  the  congregation. 

"My  brothera  and  aistera,"  he  began,  "I  have  come  to-night  to 
give  you  a  warning,  and  thia  warning  it  given  to  you  not  aa  the 
expreaaion  of  a  peraonal  opinion  but  aa  the  declaration  of  an  aa- 
aumed  fact.  Disregard  it  or  not  as  you  pleaae,  but  I  ehall  hare 
done  my  duty  in  pointing  out  to  you  the  ture  and  certain  mean- 
ing of  my  message. 

"  I,  a  tinner  like  the  rest  of  you,  live  nevertheleti  in  the  fear 
of  hell  fire.  Hell  fire  has  become,  I  think,  to  many  of  the  present 
generation  a  mockery  and  a  derision.  I  come  to  tell  you  that  it  ia 
no  mockery,  that  it  aa  surely  lies  there,  a  blazing  furnace,  in  front 
of  us  as  though  we  saw  it  with  our  own  eyea.  ..." 

With  his  own  eyes  he  had  aurely  aeen  it.  They  were  fixed  now 
in  a  frenzy  of  realiaation  upon  some  di«tant  vision,  and,  with  a 
shiver,  the  Chapel  followed  his  gaze.  I  .  i  easy  enough  to  laugh 
at  bare  and  conventional  words  stripr  of  the  atmosphere  and 
significance  of  their  original  surrouncirgs.  Ihe  merest  baby  in 
thia  twentieth  century  can  laugh  at  the  flames  of  hell  and  advance 
a  string  of  easy  arguments  against  the  probability  of  any  such 
melodramatic  fulfilment  of  the  commonplace  and  colourless  lives 
that  the  majority  of  ua  lead,  but  Maggie  waa  in  no  mood  to  laugh 
that  night. 

Before  five  minutes  had  passed  ahe  found  herself  shivering  where 
she  sat.  The  Chapel  was  convicted  of  Sin,  and  of  Sin  of  no 
ordinary  measure.  The  bead  that  rested  like  a  round  ball  on  the 
a  face  of  the  deak  thrust  conviction  into  every  heart :  "  You  think 
that  you  may  escape,  you  look  at  your  neighbours,  every  one  of 
you,  and  Bay,  'He  ia  worse  than  I.  I  am  aafe,'  but  I  tell  you 
that  not  one  man  or  woman  here  shall  be  aecure  unleaa  he  turn 
instantly  now  to  God  and  beg  for  mercy.  ..." 

Aa  he  continued  ha  did  indeed  bear  the  almost  breathless  urgency 


MR.  CRASHAW 


15. 


of  one  who  hu  been  lent  on  in  idranoe  to  innounce  the  imminrarf 
"1  •°™  ■*'"'  P*"'-  No  mitter  whit  the  peril  misht  he;  nimply 
through  the  Chapel  there  pitaed  the  breath  of  lome  coming  dangrr. 
Impoaaible  to  watch  him  and  not  reali"e  that  here  waa  a  man  who 
had  Been  aomethinit  with  hia  own  eyea  that  had  changed  in  a 
moment  the  very  fabric  of  hia  life.  Thuraton  might  be  a  charla- 
tan who  played  with  the  beliefa  of  hia  dupes,  Warlock  might  bo  a 
myatie  whose  yision  waa  in  the  future  and  not  in  the  past— 
Crashaw  i:n«iir. 

Ho  painted,  quietly,  wiviiout  fine  worda  but  with  assurance  and 
conviction,  his  belief  in  the  punishment  of  mankind.  God  was 
almoat  now  upon  the  threshold  of  their  houae.  He  was  at  the  ver>' 
gates  of  their  city,  and  with  Him  waa  coming  a  doom  as  sure  and 
awful  aa  the  sentence  of  the  earthly  judge  on  his  earthly  Tictim. 

"Punishment I  Punishment!  .  .  .  We  have  grown  in  this  carc- 
i.-'sa  age  to  laugh  at  punishment.  A  future  life!  There  is  no 
future  life.  God?  There  is  no  God  I  Even  were  He  to  come 
upon  ua  we  could  escape  from  Him.  Wc  could  make  a  very  good 
case  for  ourselves.  Thia  world  is  safe,  secure,  founded  upin  our 
markets,  our  treasuries,  our  laws  and  commandments,  our  conven- 
tions of  decent  behaviour,  our  police  and  our  ministers.  Ood  can- 
not touch  us.  We  are  secure.  ...  I  tell  you  that  at  this  very 
moment  this  earth  in  which  you  trust  is  trembling  under  .vou,  at 
this  instant  everything  in  which  you  believed  is  undermined  and 
is  betraying  you.  You  have  been  given  your  opportunity — you  are 
refusing  it — and  God  is  upon  you." 

His  voice  changed  suddenly  to  ioues  of  a  marvellous  sweetness. 
He  appealed,  pleaded,  implored.  The  uglinesa  of  his  face  and 
body  was  forgotten,  be  waa  aimply  a  voice  issuing  from  space,  sent 
to  save  a  world. 

"  And  we  here— the  few  of  us  out  of  this  huge  city  gathered  to- 
gether here — it  is  not  too  late  for  us.  Let  us  surrender  ourselves. 
Let  us  go  to  Him  and  say  that  we  are  His,  that  we  await  IIIh 
coming  and  obey  His  law.  .  .  .  Brothers  and  sisters,  I  am  as  you 
are.  weak  and  helpless  and  full  of  sin,  but  come  to  Him,  come  to 
Him,  come  to  Him !  .  .  .  There  is  help  for  us  all,  help  and  pity 
and  love.  Love  such  as  none  of  us  have  ever  known,  love  that  can- 
not fail  us  and  will  be  with  us  until  eternity  I " 

He  stepped  out  from  behind  the  desk,  stood  before  them  all  with 
his  little  stunted,  twisted  body,  his  arms  held  out  towards  them. 

There  followed  then  an  extraordinary  scene — from  all  over  the 
Chapel  came  sobs  and  cries.  A  man  rose  suddenly  from  the  hack 
of  the  building  and  cried  aloud,  "Lord,  I  believe!     Help  Thou 


1&2 


THE  CAPTIVES 


mine  unbelief."  One  of  the  women  who  hid  come  with  Uin  Aviee 
fell  upon  hi-r  knee*  and  bi'Kun  to  wib,  crying  hj«ltrii'iilly:  "Oh 
Uo<J,  have  mi'rcyl  Uod  have  mercy ! "  Women  preioeil  u|>th<.  two 
aitlen.  Home  of  them  fallinc  on  their  kneo  Wkk  when-  thiy  had 
itood,  othera  coming  to  th«'  front  and  kneeling  tliero.  Somowhore 
they  began  to  aing  the  hymn  that  had  alrcudy  Inin  >ung  that 
evening,  a  few  voicea  at  Unit,  then  more,  then  all  aingiug  together: 

•'  By  the  blood,  by  the  blood,  by  the  blood  of  the  Lamb 
We  beacech  Thee  I " 

Everywhere  now  women  were  crying,  the  Chapel  wan  filled  with 
voieeu,  »oba,  cries  and  prayera. 

Mr.  Craahaw  stood  there,  motionleBs.  bia  arma  oulslretihed. 

Maggie  did  not  know  what  «h«  felt.  She  MK-mod  dcprivwl  of  all 
•enaation  on  one  nido.  and,  on  the  other,  f..«r  and  excitement:  Iwth 
joy  and  disgust  held  her.  She  could  not  hove  told  any  one  what 
her  sensations  were;  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot  n»  though 
with  cold.  But  behind  everything  she  had  this  terror,  that  1  any 
moment  she  might  be  drawn  forward  to  do  (.omelhinp,  to  (five  some 
pledge  that  would  bind  her  for  all  her  life.  .She  felt  ax  though 
iome  power  were  urging  her  to  this,  and  us  though  the  Chapel  and 
every  one  in  it  was  conscious  of  the  struggle. 

What  might  have  happened  she  would  never  know.  She  felt  a 
touch  on  her  sleeve,  and,  turning  round,  saw  Aunt  Anne's  eyes 
lOTking  up  at  her  out  of  a  face  that  was  so  white  and  the  skin 
of  it  so  tightly  drawn  that  it  was  like  the  face  of  a  dead 
woman. 

"  Ti  1  in  great  pain,  Maggie.  I  think  you  must  take  me  home," 
she  heard  her  aunt  say. 

Aunt  Anne  took  her  arm,  they  went  out  followed  by  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth. The  fresh  evening  nir  that  blew  upon  MoRgie's  forehead 
seemed  suddenly  to  make  of  the  Chapel  a  dim,  incredible  phantom- 
faintly  from  behind  the  closed  door  came  the  echo  of  the  hymn. 
The  street  was  absolutely  Rtill— no  human  being  was  in  sight,  only 
an  old  cab  stationed  close  at  hand  waiting  for  a  possible  customer; 
into  this  they  got.  Tlie  pale,  almost  white,  evening  skv,  with  stars 
in  sheets  and  squares  and  pools  of  fire,  shone  with  the  clear  radi- 
ance of  glass  above  them.  Maggie  could  see  the  stars  through  the 
dirty  windows  of  the  cab. 

They  were  quite  silent  all  the  way  home,  Aunt  Anne  sitting  up 
very  straight,  motionless,  her  finpcrg  still  on  Mncgie's  arm. 
Inside  the  house  there  was  Jane.    She  seemed  at  once  to  under- 


MR.  CRASIIAW  J53 

•Uiid,  .nd.  «ith  Aunt  EIi«botl..  W  Aunt  Ann.,  up  the  .l«,l< 

^I!7  '''"J?'^.''"''  ''•,"';«»''«!<•  "lono  in  the  hall.  who*.  ,.„lv 
"mp  .":.' t£.*dtr  """'  '""  ••"  '-"•  '"•'  *""'  '"^'  "^  <«" 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  CHOICE 


SHE  waited  for  some  time  alone  in  the  hall  listening  for  she 
knew  not  what.  Her  departure  from  the  Chapel  had  been 
too  abrupt  to  allow  her  in  a  moment  to  shake  oS  the  impression  nf 
it — aboYe  all,  the  impression  of  Mr.  Crashaw  standing  there,  his 
arms  stretched  out  to  her,  his  eyes  burning  her  through  and  through 
with  the  urgent  insistence  of  his  discovery. 

She  was  tired,  her  head  ached  horribly,  she  would  hare  given 
everything  at  that  moment  for  a  friend  who  would  care  for  her 
and  protect  her  from  her  own  wild  fears.  She  did  not  know  of 
what  she  was  afraid,  but  she  knew  that  she  felt  that  she  would 
rather  do  anything  than  spend  the  night  in  that  house.  And  yet 
what  could  she  do?  How  could  she  escape!  She  knew  that  she 
could  not.  Oh  I  if  only  Martin  would  come  I  Where  was  he?  Why 
could  he  not  carry  her  off  that  very  night?  Why  did  he  not 
comet 

She  gazed  desperately  about  her.  Could  she  not  leave  the  house 
there  and  then?  But  where  should  sho  go?  What  could  she  do 
without  a  friend  in  London?  She  »lood  there,  clasping  and  un- 
clasping her  hands,  looking  up  at  the  black  stairs,  listening  for 
some  sound  from  above,  fancying  a  ghost  in  every  darkening  corner 
of  the  place. 

Then  her  common  sense  reasserted  itself.  It  was  something,  at 
any  rate,  that  she  was  out  of  the  Chapel,  away  from  Mr.  Crashaw's 
piercing  eyes,  Mr.  Thurston's  rasping  voice,  Mr.  Warlock's  re- 
proachful melancholy.  She  felt  this  evening  as  though  by  strug- 
gling with  all  her  strength  she  could  shut  the  gates  upon  new 
experiences  that  were  fighting  to  enter  into  her  soul,  but  must, 
at  all  costs  to  her  own  happiness,  be  defeated.  No  such  thing  as 
ghosts,  no  such  thing  as  a  God,  be  He  kind,  tender,  cruel  or  loving 
— nothing  but  what  one  can  see,  can  touch,  can  confront  with  one's 
physical  strength.  She  had  been  to  a  service  at  a  Methodist 
chapel,  her  aunt  had  been  ill,  to-morrow  there  would  be  daylight 
and  people  hurrying  down  the  street  about  their  business,  work 
and  shops  and  food  and  sun.  .  .  .  No  such  thing  as  ghosts! 
Nothing  but  what  you  can  see ! 


THE  CHOICE 


155 


"  And  111  get  some  work  without  wastingr  a  minute,"  she  thought, 
nodding  her  head.  "  In  a  shop  if  necessary— or  I  could  be  a  gov- 
erness— and  then  when  he  is  free,  Martin  will  be  with  me." 

She  climbed  on  a  chair  and  turned  down  the  hall-gas  as  she  had 
seen  Martha  do.  She  went  to  the  door  and  slipped  the  chain  into 
its  socket  and  turned  the  lock.  She  listened  for  a  moment  before 
she  started  upstairs,  she  saw  Mr.  Crashaw's  eyes  in  the  dark— she 
heard  his  Toice. 
"Punishment I    Punishment!.   .   ." 

She  suddenly  started  to  run  up  the  black  stairs,  stumbled,  ran 
faster  through  the  passage  under  the  picture  of  the  armed  men, 
arrived  at  last  in  her  room,  breathless. 

During  her  undressing  she  stopped  sometimes  to  listen.  Her 
aimt's  bedroom  was  on  the  floor  below  hers,  and  she  certainly  could 
hear  nothing  through  the  closed  doors,  and  yet  she  fancied,  as  she 
stood  there,  that  the  sound  of  sobbing  came  up  to  her  and,  twice, 
a  sharp  ciy. 

"  I  suppose  I'm  terribly  selfish."  she  thought,  "  I  ought  to  want 
to  go  end  help  Aunt  Anne,  and  I  don't."  No,  she  didn't.  She 
wanted  to  run  away  from  the  house,  miles  and  miles  and  miles. 
She  climbed  into  bed  and  thought  of  her  escape.  If  Miss 
Treno^'ard  did  not  answer  her  letter,  then  she  could  go  off  to 
Uncle  Mathew,  greatly  though  she  disliked  the  thought  of  that; 
then  she  could  live  on  her  three  hundred  pounds  and  look  about 
until  she  found  work  or  Martin  came  for  her. 

But  so  ignorant  was  she  of  the  world  that  she  did  not  in  the 
least  know  how  she  could  get  her  three  hundred  pounds.  But 
IFncle  Mathew  would  know.  She  thought  of  him  standing  in  the 
doorway  at  the  hotel,  holding  up  a  glass,  then  she  thought  of 
Martin,  and  so  fell  asleep. 

She  woke  suddenly  to  find  some  one  standing  in  her  open  door- 
way and  holding  up  a  candle.  That  some  one  was  old  Martha, 
looking  strange  enough  in  a  nightdress,  her  scanty  grey  hairs 
untidily  about  her  neck  and  a  dirty  red  shawl  over  her  shoulders. 
Maggie  blinked  at  the  light  and  sat  up  in  bed. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  It's  your  aunt.  Miss— Miss  Anne.  She's  very  bad.  She  wants 
,Tou  to  go  to  her." 

Maggie  got  out  of  bed,  put  on  her  dressing-gown  and  alippers 
and  followed  the  servant. 

As  she  hurried  along  the  dark  passage  she  was  still  only  half- 
aw«Ke;  her  soul  had  not  returned  into  her  body,  but  her  body  was 
•wake  and  vibrating  with  the  knowledge  that  the  soul  was  soon 


P 


i 


156 


THE  CAPTIVi  .< 


■n 


"    T   I 

iiiti 


coming  to  it,  and  coming  to  it  with  gteai  r.cw8,  with  the  con- 
iciouBness  of  a  marvellous  experience.  For  at  the  instant  when 
Martha  awoke  her  she  had  been  dreaming  of  Martin,  dreaming  of 
him  physically,  so  that  it  was  his  body  against  hers,  his  hand  hot 
and  dry  in  hers  cool  and  soft,  his  cheek  rough  and  strong  against 
hers  smooth  and  pale.  There  had  been  no  sentimentality  or  weak- 
ness in  her  dream.  They  had  been  confident  and  sure  and  defiant 
together,  and  it  had  been  real  life  for  her,  so  real  that  this  dream 
life  in  which  now  she  moved  down  tho  shadowy  passage  was  about 
her  as  green  water  is  about  one  when  one  swima  under  waves. 

It  was  only  slowly,  as  the  cold  air  of  the  house  at  night  cleared 
her  eyes  and  her  throat  and  her  breast,  that  she  came  to  the 
world  consciousness  again  and  surrendered  her  lover  back  to  the 
shades  and  felt  a  sudden  frightened  fear  lest,  after  all,  she  should 
never  really  know  that  ecstasy  of  which  she  had  just  been  dreaming. 
Nevertheless  it  was  still  with  a  great  consciousness  of  Martin 
that  she  entered  her  aunt's  bedroom.  Before  she  entered  she  turned 
round  for  '  moment  to  Martha. 

"What  must  I  do?"  she  asked.  "What  will  she  want  me  to 
do?" 

"  It's  only,"  said  Martha,  "  if  the  pains  come  on  very  bad,  to 
give  her  some  drops.  They're  in  a  little  green  bottle  by  her  bed. 
Five  drops  .  .  .  yes,  misb,  five  drops  in  a  little  green  bottle. 
Only  if  the  pains  is  very  bad.  She's  brave— wonderful.  I'd  'ave 
at  up  till  morning  willing,  and  so  of  course  would  Miss  Elizabeth. 
But  she  seemed  to  want  you,  miss." 

They  were  like  two  conspirators  whispering  there  in  the  dark. 
The  room  within  was  so  still.  Maggie  very  softly  pushed  back  the 
door  and  entered.  She  walked  a  few  steps  inside  the  room  and 
hesitated.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  at  all.  utter  stillness 
so  that  Maggie  could  hear  her  own  breathing  as  though  it  were 
some  one  else  at  her  side  warning  her.  Then  slowly  things  emerged, 
the  long  white  bed  first,  afterwards  a  shaded  lamp  beside  it.  a 
little  table  with  bottles,  a  chair — beyond  the  circle  of  lighted 
shadow  there  were  shapes,  near  the  window  a  high  glass,  a  dark 
shade  that  was  the  dressing-table,  and  faint  grey  squares  where  the 
windows  hung. 

In  the  room  was  a  strange  scent  half  wine,  half  medicine,  and 
beyond  that  the  plain  tang  of  apples  partially  eaten,  a  little  smell 
of  oil  too  from  the  lamp— very  faintly  the  figure  of  the  Christ 
above  the  bed  was  visible.  Maggie  moved  forward  to  the  bed.  then 
stopped  again.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do;  she  could  see  a  dark 
shadow  on  the  pillow  that  must  she  knew  be  her  aunt's  hair,  and 


THE  CHOICE 


157 


fnH'*.L^f*'u'""/°°r'  ""'  "'"'  ''"  """*•    The  room  was  cold 
and,  she  felt,  of  infinite  space.     The  smell  of  the  wine  and  the 

^^nhe-h^-ui'/Lrj"'  ""^""'*  -  '-"-^ '"« --  »-'>- 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Anne." 

She  came  very  close  to  the  bed,  and  suddenly,  as   fhoush  a 

:T:^^tCu:r  ''-'■  -'-  ^°""'  -- "-  ""-•'  --  -- 

waLVn  uraTsSa^Vo-;  ^i  l^l^SW  'ti^tX 
you  must  be  w.th  me  to-nisht.  It  was  a  call  from  Ood  I  f"  U 
that  It  must  be  obeyed.  Sit  down,  dear.  There,  on  that  chair 
You're  not  cold,  are  you?" 

Sh^l^irf  "^°''"'  e»">"i°K.her  dressing-gown  close  about  her. 
bhe  was  not  even  now  drawn  risht  out  of  her  dream,  and  the  room 
seemed  fantastic  to  rise  and  fall  a  little,  and  to  be  filed  ^th 
Zf'^'"'"'  r'  ^i^'"'"^-  For  a  time  she  was  so  sleepy  that  she 
nodded  on  her  chair,  and  the  green  lamp  swelled  and  quivcJed 

a,"r  c^»  JJ'b  '.?  T""1  'I  '™^  '"  '^'  <'"''•  but  soon  the  e^ 
a  r  cleared  her  head,  and  she  was  wide  awake,  staring  before  her 
at  the  grey  window-panes.  Her  aunt  did  not  for  a  long  time  sneak 
a|?a,n      Maggie  sat  there  her  mind  a  maze  of  the  0^1    oW 

feet  and  her  hands,  but  her  head  now  was  burning  hot.  Then  sud- 
denly her  aunt  began  to  talk  in  a  dreamy  rather  lazy  voice  not  her 

Xd  nn"  ^*""'  "'■'"''  .""'  ''''"'^''  ^^'y  "'""H'  and  clear.  She 
.nfinLji  ?"=  sometimes  her  sentences  were  confused  and 

n™  „  T^'-  °;f  ™'?  ""f  "^^"^  *°  ^'^^^  to  have  no  meaning; 
once  or  twice  the  voice  dropped  so  low  that  Maggie  did  not  cltch 

ILZ  «  th'  "'r'"  '^''  "?'  ^P^'"'  -gencrbehind  the  ca,^ 
hZlt    «'«;<>"'?•'  every  word  were  being  spoken  for  a  listened 

IZtrt^eTrk  b^tdS^"''  ""■  -"''"  ""■'  -*«'"»''  — 
"So  sorry  •  •  •  so  sorry,  Maggie  dear  ...  so  sorrr"  the 
words  ran  up  and  down  "  I  hadn't  meant  to  take  you  nwl^before 
the  service  was  over.  Elizabeth  could  have  ,  .  f  sometimeTmy 
pam  IS  very  bad  and  I  have  to  lie  down,  you  know.    But  7s  no"t 

vlr  nilJ  M  ™- "'.J^'T  """"  ^°"'"  '™°"  "»  better,  won't 
Z  K  .f  .Y"^^*'  'bere's  been  something  between  us  .11  thif 
time,  hasn't  there?    Ever  sinc-e  our  first  meeting-and  it's  part^ 


158 


THE  CAPTIVES 


been  my  fault.  I  wasn't  good  at  first,  I  wanted  to  be  kind,  but  I 
was  atiS  and  shy.  You  wouldn't  think  that  I'm  shy?  I  am, 
terribly.  I  always  have  been  since  I  was  very  little,  and  just  to 
enter  a  room  when  othei  people  arc  there  makes  me  so  embarrassed 
...  I  remember  once  when  mother  was  alive  her  scolding  me  be- 
cause I  wouldn't  come  in  to  a  tea-party.  But  I  couldn't;  I  stood 
outside  the  door  in  an  agony,  doing  everything  to  make  myself  ko 
in — but  I  couldn't  .  .  .  But  now  I've  come  to  love  you,  dear, 
although  of  course  you  have  your  faults.  But  they  are  faults  of 
your  age,  carelessness,  selfishness.  They  are  nothing  in  the  eyes  of 
God,  who  understands  all  our  weaknesses.  And  you  must  learn  to 
know  Him,  dear.  That  is  my  only  prayer  now.  If  I  am  taken,  if 
I  go  before  the  great  day — if  it  be  His  will — then  I  pray  always, 
now  that  I  may  lea^K  you  in  my  place,  waiting  for  Him  as  I  have 
waited,  trusting  Him  as  I  have  trusted  .  .  .  you  saw  to-night 
what  it  means  to  us,  what  it  must  mean  to  any  one  who  has 
listened.  There  were  times,  years  ago.  when  I  had  not  turned  to 
God,  when  I  did  not  care,  when  I  thought  of  earthly  love  .  .  . 
God  drew  me  to  Himself.  .  .  You  too  must  come,  Maggie— you 
mutt  come.  You  mustn't  stay  outside — you  are  aeked,  you  are 
invited — perhaps  you  will  be  compelled  .   .    ." 

The  voice  sank :  Maggie's  teeth  chattered  in  her  head  from  the 
cold,  and  her  foot  had  gone  to  sleep.  She  felt  obstinate  and  rebel- 
lious and  frightened,  she  could  not  think  clearly,  and  the  words 
that  came  from  her,  suddenly,  seemed  to  her  not  to  be  her  own. 

"  Aunt  Anne,  I  want  to  do  everything  that  you  and  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth think  I  should,  but  I  must  be  myself,  mustn't  II  Tm  grown 
up  now,  I've  got  my  three  hundred  pounds  and  I  don't  think  I 
want  to  be  religious.  I'm  very  grateful  to  you  and  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
but  I'm  not  a  help  to  you  much,  I'm  afraid.  I  know  I'm  very 
careless,  I  do  want  to  be  better,  and  that's  all  the  more  reason, 
perhaps,  why  I  should  go  out  and  earn  my  own  living.  I'd  learn 
more  quickly  then.    But  I  do  love  you  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  .   .   . " 

She  broke  off;  she  did  not  love  them.  She  knew  that  she  did 
not.  The  only  human  being  in  all  the  world  whom  she  loved  wns 
Martin.  Nevertheless  there  did  come  to  her  suddenly  then  a  new 
tenderness  for  her  aunt ;  the  actual  sight  of  her  pain  in  the  Chapel 
had  deeply  touched  her  and  now  her  eagerness  for  eieape  was 
mingled  with  a  longing  to  be  affectionate  and  good. 

But  Aunt  Anne  did  not  seem  to  have  heai^. 

"  Arc  you  sure  you're  not  cold,  dear! " 

"No,  aunt." 

Their  hands  touched,  ^f 


THE  CHOICE 


159 


"  But  you  are.  Put  that  rug  over  you.  That  one  at  the  end 
of  the  bed.    I'm  quiet  now.    I  think  perhaps  I  shall  sleep  a  little." 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do ! " 

"  Perhaps  turn  the  lamp  down,  dear.  That's  it.  A  little  more. 
.Vow,  if  you'd  just  raise  my  pillow.  There,  behind  my  head. 
That's  the  way  I    Why,  what  a  good  nurse  you  are !  " 

Maggie,  as  tenderly  as  she  could,  turned  the  pillow,  patted  it, 
placed  it  beneath  her  aunt's  head.  She  was  close  against  her  aunt's 
face,  and  the  eyes  seemed  suddenly  so  fierce  and  urgent,  so  in- 
sistent and  powrrt'il,  that  seeing  them  was  like  the  discovery  of 
some  blazing  fire  in  an  empty  house.  Most  of  all,  they  were  terri- 
fied eyes.  Maggie  went  back  to  her  chair.  After  that,  she  sat 
there  during  the  slow  evolution  of  Eternity;  Eternity  unrolled 
itself  before  her,  on  and  on  and  on,  grey  limitless  mist  and  space, 
comfortless,  lifeless,  hopeless.  She  had  been  for  many  weeks  lead- 
ing a  thoroughly  unwholesome  life  in  that  old  house  with  those  old 
women.  She  did  not  herself  know  how  unhealthy  it  had  been, 
but  she  knew  that  she  missed  the  wide  fields  and  downs  of  Glebe- 
shire,  the  winds  that  blew  from  the  sea  round  Borbedden,  the  air 
that  swirled  and  raced  up  and  down  the  little  stony  strata  of  St. 
Dreot.  Now  she  had  been  kept  indoors,  had  had  no  fun  of  any 
kind,  had  looked  forward  to  Mr.  Magnus  as  her  chief  diversion. 
Then  Martin  had  come,  and  suddenly  she  had  seen  how  danger- 
ously her  life  was  hemming  her  in.  She  was  losing  courage.  She 
would  soon  be  afraid  to  speak  for  herself  at  all;  she  would 
soon  .   .   . 

In  a  panic  at  these  thoughts,  and  feeling  as  though  some  one 
was  trying  to  push  her  down  into  a  coffin  whilst  she  was  still  alive, 
she  began  hurriedly  to  speak,  although  she  did  not  know  whether 
her  aunt  were  asleep  or  no. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you.  Aunt  Anne,  tha<  wrote  a  letter 
some  days  ago  and  posted  it  myself.  It  was  to  .  lady  who  knew 
Father  once  in  Glebeshire,  and  she  said  that  if  ever  I  wanted  help 
I  was  to  write  to  her,  and  so — although  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have 
done  it  without  asking  you  first,  still  I  was  afraid  you  mightn't 
want  me  to — so  I  sent  it.  I  wouldn't  like  to  hurt  your  feelings, 
Aunt  Anne,  and  it  isn't  that  I'm  not  happy  with  you  and  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  but  I  ought  to  be  earning  my  own  living,  oughtn't  I? 
and  Pve  only  got  my  three  hundred  pounds,  haven't  I!  I'm  not 
complaining,  but  I  don't  know  about  anything  yet,  do  I?  I  can't 
even  find  my  way  when  I'm  out  with  Aunt  Elizabeth.  And  I'm 
afraid  I'll  never  be  really  good  enough  to  be  religious.  Perhaps 
if  Faiber'd  wanted  me  to  be  I  might  be  now,  but  be  never  cared. 


160 


THE  CAPTIVES 


...  I  hope  you  won't  be  angry.  Aunt  Anne,  but  I  didn't  like 
to-night— I  didn't  really.  When  I  was  there  I  thought  that  soon 
I'd  begin  to  cry  like  the  others,  but  it  was  only  because  every  one 
else  was  crying— not  because  I  wanted  to.  I  hope  you  won't  bo 
angry,  but  I'm  afraid  I'll  never  be  religious  as  you  and  Aunt 
Elizabeth  want  me  to  be;  so  don't  you  think  it  will  be  better  for 
me  to  start  learning  something  else  right  away  ? " 

Maggie  poured  all  this  out  and  then  felt  immense  relief.    At 
last  she  was  honest  again;  at  last  she  had  said  what  she  felt,  and 
;hey  knew  it  and  could  never  say  that  she  hadn't  been  fair  with 
them.    She  felt  that  her  speech  had  cleared  the  air  in  every  kind 
of  way.    She  waited  for  her  aunt's  reply.    No  sound  came  from 
the  bed.    Had  her  aunt  heard  ?    Perhaps  she  slept.    Uaggie  waited. 
Then  timidly,  and  softly  she  said : 
"Aunt  Anne  .   .   .  Aunt  Anne.  ..." 
No  reply.    Then  again  in  a  whisper: 
"Aunt  Anno  .   .   .  Aunt  Anne.  ..." 

Supposing  Aunt  Anne  .   .   .  Maggie  trembled,  then,  command- 
ing herself  to  be  calm,  she  bent  towards  the  bed. 
"Aunt  Anne,  are  you  asleep?" 

Suddenly  Aunt  Anne's  face  was  there,  the  eyes  closed,  the  mouth, 
the  cheeks  pale  yellow  in  the  faint  reflection  from  the  lamp.  There 
was  no  stir,  no  breath. 
"  Aunt  Anne,  Aunt  Anne,"  Maggie  whispered  in  terror  now. 
Then  she  saw  that  her  aunt  was  sleeping;  very,  very  faintly  the 
sheets  rose  and  fell  and  the  fingers  of  the  hand  on  the  coverlet 
trembled  a  little  as  though  they  were  struggling  to  wake. 

Then  Aunt  Anne  had  heard  nothing  after  all.  But  it  might  be 
that  she  was  pretending,  just  to  see  what  Maggie  would  say. 

"Aunt  Anne."  whispered  Maggie  once  more  and  for  the  last 
time.  Then  she  sat  back  on  her  seat  again,  her  hands  folded, 
staring  straight  in  front  of  her.  After  that  she  did  not  know 
for  how  long  she  sat  there  in  a  state  somewhere  between  dream  and 
reality.  The  room,  although  it  never  lost  its  familiarity,  grew 
uncouthly  strange;  shapes  grey  and  dim  seemed  to  move  beneath 
the  windows,  humping  their  backs,  spinning  out  into  long  limbs, 
hands  and  legs  and  gigantic  fingers.  The  deadest  hour  of  the 
night  was  come;  the  outside  world  seemed  to  press  upon  the 
house,  the  whole  world  cold,  thick,  damp,  lifeless,  like  an  animal 
slain  and  falling  with  its  full  weight,  crushing  everything  be- 
neath it.  Perhaps  she  slept — she  did  not  know.  Martin  seemed 
to  be  with  her,  and  against  them  was  Aunt  Anne,  her  back  against 
the  door,  her  hands  spread,  refusing  to  let  them  pass.    The  room 


THE  CHOICE 


161 


joined  in  the  struggle,  the  floor  slipped  beneath  their  tread,  the 
curtain  swayed  forward  and  caught  them  in  ita  folds,  the  lam|i 
flickered  and  flickered  and  flickered.  .   .   . 

She  was  awake  suddenly,  quite  acutely  aware  of  danger.  She 
rubbed  her  eyes,  turned,  end  in  the  dim  shadow  saw  her  nunt  sil- 
ting up  in  bed,  her  body  drawn  up  to  its  intensest  height,  her  hands 
pressing  down,  flat  upon  the  bed.  Her  eyes  stared  as  though  they 
would  break  down  all  boundaries,  but  her  lips  trembled  like  the 
lips  of  a  little  child. 

"  Aunt  Anne,  what  is  it  ? "  Maggie  whispered. 

"It's  the  pain "    Her  voice  was  far  away  as  though  «ome 

one  were  speaking  from  the  passage  outside  the  door.  "It's  the 
pain  ...  I  can't  .   .   .  much  more.  ..." 

Maggie  remembered  what  Martha  had  told  her  about  the  drops. 
She  found  the  little  green  bottle,  saw  the  glass  by  the  side  of 
it. 

Suddenly  she  heard  Aunt  Anne:  "Oh  no  .  .  .  Oh  no!  God 
I  can't  .   .   .  God,  I  can't  ...  I  can't." 

Maggie  bent  over  the  bed;  she  put  her  hand  behind  her  aunt's 
back  and  could  feel  the  whole  body  quivering,  the  flesh  damp  be- 
neath the  night-dress.  She  steadied  her,  then  put  the  glass  to  her 
lips. 

The  cry  was  now  a  little  whisper.  "  No  more  ...  I  can  .  .  . 
no  more."  Then  more  softly  still :  "  Thy  will,  oh  Lord.  As  thou 
wilt — Our  Father,  which  art  in  Heaven,  Hallowed  .  .  .  Hallowed 
.   .   .  Hallowed.  .   .   ." 

She  sank  down  on  to  her  pillows. 

"  Is  it  better! "  Maggie  asked. 

Her  aunt  caught  her  hand. 

"  You  mustn't  leave  me.  I  shan't  live  long,  but  you  must  stay 
with  me  until  I  go.    Promise  me  I    Promise  met" 

"  No,  I  can't  promise,"  said  Maggie. 

"  You  must  stay.    You  must  stay." 

"No,  I  can't  promise."  Then  suddenly  kneeling  down  by  the 
bed  she  put  her  hand  on  the  other's  arm:  "Aunt  Anne,  I'll  do 
anything  for  you— anything— to  make  you  better — if  I  can  help 
.    .   .  but  not  a  promise,  I  can't  promise." 

"Ah,  but  you  wUl  stay,"  Aunt  Anne's  whisper  trembled  with 
its  certainty. 

That  seemed  the  climax  of  the  night  to  Maggie  then.  She  felt 
that  she  was  indeed  held  for  eternity  by  the  house,  the  Chapel,  and 
something  beyond  the  Chapel.  The  scent  of  the  medicine,  the 
closeness  of  the  room,  the  darkness  and  the  sickness,  seemed  to 


les 


THE  CAPTIVES 


1 
'1 

1 

I 

T 

£ 

ii 

1 

If 

clow  all  about  hn.  .  .  .  She  wii  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well, 
and  the  would  nerer  g«t  out,  the  would  nerer  get  out.  .   .   . 

The  door  ilowly,  very  aoftlsr  opened,  and  old  Martha  looked  in. 

"  She'a  been  very  bad,"  whispered  Maggie. 

"Ay,  I  heard  something.  That's  why  I  came.  You  gave  her 
the  drops)" 

"Yes." 

"  She'll  sleep  a  bit  now.  Ill  take  your  place,  Miss  Maggie.  Iff 
time  you  went  back  to  your  bed." 

Maggie  crept  away. 

She  came  down  to  breakfast  to  find  the  house  bathed  in  sunlight 
and  the  parrot  singing  hoarsely  "  And  her  golden  hair  was  hang- 
ing down  her  back."  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  there,  cheerful  and 
almost  merry  in  her  bird-like  fashion.  The  world  was  normal, 
ghosts  out  of  fashion,  and  this  morning  was  the  day  on  which 
the  silver  was  cleaned.  This  last  was  Maggie's  business,  and  very 
badly  she  did  it,  never  being  "  thorough,"  and  having  a  fatal  habit 
of  thinking  of  other  things.  Porridge,  eggs  and  bacon,  marma- 
lade  

"  And — her  golden  hair  was  hanging "  croaked  Edward. 

"  Your  aunt  won't  come  down  this  morning,  Maggie.  She's  much 
better.  The  sun's  shining.  A  little  walk  will  be  a  good  thing, 
ril  buy  the  calico  that  Anne  talked  about.    Your  aunt's  better." 

Maggie  felt  ashamed  of  herself.  What  desperate  silly  feelings 
had  she  allowed  last  night!  How  much  she  had  made  of  that 
service,  and  how  weak  she  was  to  give  way  so  easily  I 

"  I'll  clean  the  silver,"  she  thought.  "  I'll  do  it  better  than  ever  " 
— but  unfortunately  she  had  a  hole  in  her  stocking,  and  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  like  a  sparrow  who  has  found  a  worm,  told  her  about  it. 

"Mr.  Crasbaw's  coming  to  tea  this  afternoon,"  she  concluded. 
"That's  why  Anne's  staying  in  bed — to  be  well  enough."  The 
stocking  and  Mr.  Crashaw  dimmed  a  little  of  the  morning's 
radiance,  but  behind  'iem  was  the  thought,  "Martin  miuf  come 
to-day.  It  was  like  a  message  his  look  last  night."  She  even 
sang  to  herself  as  she  scrubbed  at  the  silver. 

They  spent  a  domestic  morning.  Aunt  Elizabeth  did  not  gt> 
for  her  walk,  but  instead  stayed  in  the  dining-room  and,  seated  at 
ttts  end  of  the  long  dining-table,  her  head  just  appearing  above  the 
worn  and  soiled  green  table-cloth,  tried  to  discipline  the  week's 
household  accounts.  She  worked  sucking  one  finger  after  another 
and  poking  her  pencil  into  her  ears. 

"  One  pound,  three  shillings— ham,  bam,  ham !" 


THE  CHOICE 


m 


At  one  moment  ibe  invited  the  cook  to  tuitt  her,  and  that  lady, 
crinuon  from  the  lutchen  fire,  bared  arms  akimbo,  ttated  that  ihe 
was  not  only  the  moat  economical  woman  in  London,  but  waa  alio, 
thanka  to  her  upbringing,  one  of  the  moat  aober  and  rirtuoua,  and 
if  Miaa  Cardinal  had  anything  to  lay  againat " 

Oh  no!  Aunt  Elizabeth  had  nothing  to  aay  againat,  only  thia 
one  pound,  three  ahillinga 

Well,  the  cook  couldn't  help  that;  ahe  waan't  one  to  let  a  penny 
out  of  her  fingera  nhere  it  shouldn't  go. 

So  the  morning  hummed  along;  luncheon-time  came,  the  silver 
vras  all  cleaned,  the  stockings  changed,  and  there  was  roast  chicken. 
Thomas,  with  his  wicked  eyes,  came  slowly,  majeatically  upon  the 
scene — but  even  he  was  not  sinister  to-day,  being  interested  in  his 
own  greed  rather  than  other  persons'  sina. 

All  thia  time  Haggle  refused  to  think.  Uartin  would  come,  then 
ahe  would  aee. 

Martin  .  .  .  Martin  .  .  .  Martin  .  .  .  She  went  up  into  her 
bedroom  and  whiapered  the  name  over  and  over  to  herself  whilst 
she  tried  to  mend  her  stocking.  She  flung  the  stocking  down  and 
gazed  out  of  the  window  on  to  a  world  that  was  all  golden  cloud 
and  racing  watery  blue.  The  roofs  swam  like  floating  carpets  in 
the  sun,  detached  from  the  brick  and  mortar  beneath  them,  carried 
by  the  racing  clouds.  It  waa  only  at  that  sudden  gaze  that  she 
realised  that  she  was  a  prisoner.  All  her  alarm  came  back  to  her. 

"Why  can't  I  go  out!  I'll  put  on  my  hat  and  just  walk  out. 
No  one  can  stop  me.    No  one.  ..." 

But  she  knew  that  she  could  not.  Something  more  must  happen 
first.  She  turned  from  the  window  with  a  little  shudder,  finished 
very  clumsily  her  stocking,  and  as  the  cuckoo  clock  struck  half- 
past  three  went  down  to  the  drawing-room. 

There  to  her  surprise,  she  found  Caroline  Smith.  The  events 
of  the  last  few  days  had,  a  little,  dimmed  Caroline  from  her 
memory.  She  had  not  seen  Caroline  for  a  fortnigh  She  did 
not  know  that  she  especially  wanted  to  see  Caroline  now.  How- 
ever, it  was  very  certain  that  Caroline  wanted  to  see  her.  The 
young  woman  waa  dressed  in  rose-coloured  silk  that  stood  out 
from  her  slim  body  almost  like  a  crinoline,  and  she  had  a  straw 
funnel-shaped  hat  with  roses  perched  on  the  side  of  her  lovely  head. 
She  kissed  Maggie  many  times,  and  then  sitting  down  with  her 
little  sharp  black  shoes  poked  out  in  front  of  her,  she  ran 
on: 

"  It's  been  too  bad,  Maggie,  dear ;  it's  simply  ages  since  we  had 
a  moment,  isn't  it,  but  it  hasn't  been  my  fault    Father's  been  ill 


m 
,1 


164 


THE  CAPTIVES 


llkl 


— broochitii— ind  I've  hid  to  help  Uother.  Fitbu*!  been  m 
happy,  he'a  jutt  been  able  to  lie  in  bed  for  daya  and  think  about 
God.  None  of  those  tiresome  people  at  the  Bank  to  interrupt 
him,  and  chicken  and  jelly  aa  much  ai  be  liked.  He  waa  ao 
unhappy  yestprday  when  be  bad  to  go  back  to  work,  poor  dear. 
.  .  .  But,  Mamie,  I  hear  you  were  at  the  aerrice  laat  night. 
How  did  you  like  itt" 

"  Like  it? "  laid  Maggie.  "  I  don't  know  that  it'i  a  thing  one 
likea,  exactly." 

"  Doesn't  one?  7  don't  know.  I'm  not  one  of  the  Inside  Saints, 
.vou  know,  and  I  wouldn't  be  if  they  wanted  me  to  be.  But  you're 
one  now,  they  tay,  and  I  never  would  have  thought  it.  Tou  don't 
look  a  bit  like  one,  and  I  shouldn't  have  dreamt  that  you'd  ever 
stand  that  sort  of  thing.    You  look  so  matter-of-fact." 

Uaggie  wa«  on  the  point  of  bursting  out  that  she  was  not  an 
Inside  Saint,  and  would  never  be  one,  when  caution  restrained 
her.     She  had   learnt  already   that  her  gay  young  companion 
was  not  as  trustworthy  as  best  friends  ought  to  be. 
"  It  was  the  first  time,  last  night,"  she  said. 
"  Yes,  I  know,  and  Uiss  Cardinal  was  ill  and  had  to  come  away 
in  the  middle,  didn't  she?     It  must  hare  been  a  simply  awful 
meeting,  because  Mother  came  back  as  limp  as  anything.     She'd 
been  crying  buckets,  and  has  a  dreadful  headache  to-day.    I  sup- 
pose Mr.  Crashaw  gave  it  them.    I've  never  heard  him,  but  I've 
seen  him.    Horrid  old  monkey— I  hope  Miss  Cardinal's  better  to- 
day." 
"  Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie.    «  She's  better." 
"  Well,  that's  a  good  thing.    I'm  so  glad.    And  you,  you  darling, 
what  did  you  think  of  it  all!    I'm  sure  you  didn't  cry  buckets. 
I  can  see  you  sitting  there  as  quiet  as  anything,  like  a  little  Quaker. 
I'd  like  to  have  gone  just  to  have  seen  you.    I  hear  Martin  War- 
lock was  there  too.    Was  he?" 
"  He  was,"  said  Maggie. 

"Fancy  that  I  I  wonder  what  he  went  for.  His  father  made 
him,  I  expect.  You  know  they  say  he's  getting  on  awfully  badly 
at  home  and  that  there  are  quarrels  all  the  time.  /  don't  know,  of 
course,  but  his  sister  can't  stand  him.  She's  always  showing  her 
feelings — not  very  good  taste,  I  think,  but  Mr.  Thurston  eggs  her 
on.    They'll  be  making  a  match  of  it  one  day,  those  two.  .   .   . 

I  say,  Maggie "    Caroline  drew  her  chair  close.    "  111  give  you 

a  secret.    You  won't  tell  any  one,  will  yon  ? " 
"  Certainly  not— if  you  tell  me  not  to,"  said  Maggie. 
"  Wall,  Martin  Warlock  and  I— ever  since  he  came  ba*.    Oh  I 


THE  CHOICE 


W 


I  don't  Mjr  it'i  anythins  really.  But  he's  (ttrieted  by  mc  and 
would  likp  to  go  farther.  He'll  be  aikini;  me  to  marry  him  one 
of  these  days,  and  then  I'll  hari'  fun.  He  would  have  done  the 
other  day  if  I'd  let  him.  I  like  him  rather,  don't  you?  He's 
ffetting  a  bit  fat,  of  course,  but  ht's  (fot  nice  cyea,  end  then  he's 
a  real  man.  I  like  rral  men.  But  thero,  you'll  be  thinkinK  me 
eoarsi .  I  know  you  will.  I'm  not  coarse  really,  only  impulsivf. 
You  don't  like  mc,  honestly,  if  it  were  known.  Ob  no!  you  don't! 
i  can  tell.  I  plways  know.  But  I  don't  care— I  love  ym.  You're 
a  darlinf^— an  J  what  I  aay  is  if  ycu  love  some  one,  just  love  them. 
Never  mind  what  they  think.  Don't  you  aftree  with  me  I  But 
you  wouldn't.  You  wouldn't  think  of  loving  anybody.  But  I'm 
not  really  bad — only  careless.  Mother  says " 

What  Mother  said  could  not  be  known,  because  the  door  opened 
and  Martha  announced  Mr.  Crashaw.  The  old  man,  leaning  on  a 
walking  stick,  came  forward  and  greeted  Maggie  and  Caroline 
with  good-temper  and  amiability.  He  was  indeed  in  day-time  a 
very  mild  old  man,  and  it  was  difficult  for  Maggie  to  believe  that 
this  waa  the  same  who  last  night  had  frightened  her  out  of  her 
wita  and  led  her  to  the  edge  of  such  strange  suspicions.  He  was 
more  than  ever  like  a  monkey,  with  bis  bony  broun  forehead,  pro- 
tuberant eyes  and  large  mottled  nose,  and  he  sat  there  all  huddled 
up  by  bis  rheumatism,  a  living  example  of  present  physical  tor- 
ments rather  than  future  spiritual  ones.  It  was  apparent  nt  once 
that  he  liked  pretty  young  women,  and  he  paid  Caroline  a  number 
of  flattering  attentions,  disregarding  Maggie  with  a  frankness  that 
witnessed  to  a  V.'e  that  had  taught  one  lesson  at  least,  never  on 
any  occasion  to  waste  time.  Maggie  did  not  mind — it  amuaed  her 
to  see  her  terror  of  the  night  before  transformed  into  a  mere 
serenading  crippled  old  gentleman,  and  to  see.  too,  the  excited 
pleasure  with  which  Caroline  accepted  even  such  decayed  attentions 
as  these.  But  what  was  it  that  had  persuaded  her  last  night }  Why 
did  she  now  spend  her  time  half  in  one  world  and  half  in  another  ? 
Which  world  was  the  real  one? 

Aunt  Anne  very  soon  joined  them,  and  this  quiet,  composed 
figiire  only  added  to  Maggie's  scorn  of  he-  last  night's  terrors.  Was 
this  the  same  who  had  struggled  with  such  agon.y,  who  had  made 
Maggie  fee!  that  she  was  caught  iu  a  trap  and  imprisoned  for 
ever? 

The  sun  beat  hotly  upon  the  carpet.  Canline'a  rose-coloured 
silk  shone  and  glowed,  the  tea  was  poured  out,  and  there  was 
chatter  about  the  warm  winter  that  it  was  and  how  time  pr.ssed, 
and  how  fashions  changed,  and  how  you  never  saw  a  four-wheeler 


186 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I     51 


"»>•♦  tbcy 


M 

en. 

now 


now,  and  wb«t  they  were  tuminir  Kincawiy  i-i- 

were   turning  the  t*w  Oourt«  out  of.   »tv'. 

Cnihaw,  a  word  about  the  Lyceum  Theatre, 
playinir  the  ilerchant  of  Ytnice,  which  waa  i  /; 

do  no  one  any  harm. 

"  But  I  dareaay,"  wid  Mr.  Oraahaw,  "  that       .   i-  i 
loca  to  nothing  but  playa  every  night  of  her  \h 

"Why,  Mr.  Craahew,"  said  Caroline,  touing 
that'a  the  kind  of  life  you  fancy  I  lead  you're  compk 
Theatre*  indeed !  Never  do  I  put  eo  much  ai  the  tip 
inaide  one.  Father  thinka  they're  wrong  and  so  doea  Mother  aay 
ahe  doea,  although  I  know  she  likes  them  really;  but  any  way  that 
doesn't  matter  because  I  never  have  a  moment  to  myself— silting 
at  home  sewing,  that'a  the  way  I  spend  my  days,  Mr.  Cra- 
ahaw." 

It  waa  the  very  last  way  she  really  spent  them,  aa  Maggie  per- 
fectly well  knew.  It  ia  not  to  be  auppoaed  that  Mr.  Crashaw  either 
waa  deceived.  However,  he  gave  a  wicked  wink  with  the  eye  that 
waa  least  rheumatic  and  aaid  something  about  "  a  beautiful  young 
lady  like  Miss  Smith  wpsted  on  sewing  and  darning,"  and  Caroline 
amiled  and  said  something  about  "  one  day  perhaps  "—and  Aunt 
Anne  looked  remotely  benevolent.  What  did  she  think  of  all  this, 
Maggie  wondered?  What  did  she  think  of  her  great  preacher,  her 
prophet,  wasting  the  few  hours  of  life  that  remained  to  him  over 
auch  a  busineas?  They  had  some  aecret  underatanding,  perhapa, 
as  though  they  said  to  one  another,  "  We  know,  you  and  I,  what 
are  our  real  intentiona  beneath  all  thia.  We  only  do  what  we 
must." 

IJnderatanding  or  no,  Mr.  Crashaw  sprang  up  with  unexpected 
activity  when  Caroline  departed  and  announced  his  Intention  of 
conducting  her  to  her  door.  He  made  his  adieus  and  then  hobbled 
along  after  the  rose-coloured  ailk  aa  though  thia  was  hia  last  chance 
of  wanning  bis  handa  at  the  flame  of  life. 

When  they  were  gone,  Aunt  Anne  aaid: 

"  I  am  going  back  to  bed,  Maggie,  dear.  Martha  will  send  me 
up  some  supper  later.  Elizabeth  has  gone  to  Lambeth  to  see  a 
friend,  so  make  yourself  busy  until  seven,  dear.  If  I  want  any- 
thing ni  ring." 

When  she  was  left  alone  in  the  darkening  room  she  stood  there 
thinking.  Why  should  she  not  go  out  and  find  Martin?  She  did 
not  care  what  any  one  thought.  She  would  go  to  his  house  and 
aak  for  him.  She  had  waited  and  waited.  .  .  .  She  wanted  him 
so,  ahe  wanted  him  so  deapcratelyl 


THE  CHOICE 


167 


Then  Martha  ap«D«d  the  door  and  announcvd  him.  yea,  rrally 
announord  him,  laying:  "It'a  young  Mr.  Warlock,  Miaa,  and  he 
aaya  if  your  aunta  iin't  in  youll  do." 

"Adc  him  to  come  up,  Martha."  aaid  Maggie,  and  then  held 
beraelf  there,  rooted,  where  she  itood  lo  that  the  ahould  not  nin 
to  him  and  Hing  her  armi  round  hia  neclc.  She  frit  at  nn™  with 
that  quiclt  perception  that  waa  hern,  in  apite  of  her  Ignorance  of 
life,  that  thia  waa  no  moment  for  love-making,  and  that  he  wanted 
aomething  quit,-    t'.ur  from  h«r. 

He  cloaed  th.  il.,or  behi)..!  him,  looked  round  the  room,  didn't 
come  to  her,  i"jt  HLti'iHl  wiu-rt'  ).<■  was. 

"  I've  be»  ,  trv  TiK  t.,  wc  •  oi    ,u  day,"  he  Mid.    "  How  long  have 
wegotalin.  <!,.;, OH  J.juk." 
She  mic-  >.;ok  hir  ey-  -  froi.i  h'f  face. 

" Unt'l  fsvii,  prob..H  Aunt  i:iiaabeth'a  in  Lambeth  and  Aunt 
Anne'i  in  bed." 

"naf,  luck."  li.'  drew  a  breath  of  relief,  then  moved  over  to 
the  fireplace.  '  Ma>gip,  I've  come  to  aay  we  mustn't  see  one 
another  any  more." 

Some  one,  scoi"  Mi>t  fig,ir(-  vliadowy  behind  Ler,  moved  suddenly 
forward  and  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  hia  embrac?  v.hu  H^adly 
eold.   She  stood  where  she  was,  her  hands  at  her  side,  loc!  ijiir  ntnd- 
fastly  at  him. 
"Why«"  she  said. 

« Because— because— the  fact  is.  I've  beer  roiiR  ult.m 'b'T. 
Maggie,  I'm  not  the  sort  of  men  for  you  to  h  .  -■  inyrhinj;  i-)  ,;,) 
with.  Ton  don't  know  much  about  life  yet,  Oi'  y-i:,'i  T'm  a^mn 
the  flrrt  man  you've  ever  met.  aren't  I ?  If  yor'''  met  uo.iih  •r  yr.-r, 
before  me,  you'd  have  cored  for  him  as  much ' 

She  said  nothing  and  he  seemed  to  be  confused  i '  S.  p  i.iilj- 
gaae,  because  he  looked  down  and  continued  to  spe«'  t--  >  v,uiih 
to  himself: 

"  I  knew  at  once  that  there  was  danger  in  our  meeting.  With 
other  girls  they  can  look  after  themselves.  One  hasn't  any  re- 
aponsibility  to  them.  It's  their  own  affair,  but  you  believe  every 
word  a  fellow  says.  And  if  we'd  been  friends  it  wouldn't  have 
mattered,  but  from  the  very  first  we  weren't  that— we  were  some- 
thing more. 

"Tou  were  so  differe,  t  from  any  other  girl.    I've  wanted  to  be 

pood  to  you  from  the  beginning,  but  now  I  see  that  if  we  go  on  I 

shall  only  be  bad.    It  all  comes  in  the  end  to  my  being  bad— really 

DQfi — and  I  want  ynu  tf<  know  it." 

"I  don't  know,"  sai-l  Maggie,  "  thn*  I've  thought  very  much 


168 


THE  CAPTIVES 


whether  you're  good  or  bad.  And  it  doesn't  matter.  I  can  look 
after  myself." 

"  No.  you  can't."  he  said  vehemently,  making  a  step  towards 
her  and  then  suddenly  stopping.  "  That's  just  it — ^you  can't.  I've 
bctn  thinking;  oil  the  time  since  the  other  evening  when  we  were 
together,  and  I've  seen  that  you  believe  every  word  I  say  and  you 
trust  me.  I  don't  mean  to  tell  lies — I  don't  know  that  I'm  worse 
than  most  other  men — but  I'm  nrt  good  enough  for  you  to  trust 
in  all  the  same.  I've  been  knocking  about  for  years,  and  I  sup- 
pose I've  had  most  of  my  idealism  knocked  out  of  me.  Anyway 
I  don't  believe  in  most  people,  and  you  still  do.  I'm  not  going  to 
be  the  one  to  change  you." 

"  Perhaps  I  know  more  about  life  than  you  think,"  said 
Haggle. 

"  No,  how  can  yon  1  You've  never  had  a  chance  of  seeing  any 
of  it.  You'd  get  sick  of  me  in  no  time.  I'm  moody  and  selfish 
and  bad-tempered.  I  used  to  drink  a  bit  too.  And  I  can't  bo 
faithful  to  women.  I  might  think  I  was  going  to  be  faithful  to 
you  and  swear  I  would  be — and  then  suddenly  some  one  would 
come  along.  I  thought  for  a  bit  I'd  just  go  on  with  you  and  see 
what  came  of  it.  You're  so  unusual,  you  make  me  want  to  be 
straight  with  you;  but  I've  seen  it  wouldn't  be  fair.  I  must  just 
slip  out  of  your  path  and  you'll  forget  me,  and  then  you'll  meet 
a  much  better  man  than  Z  lini  be  happy.  I'm  queer — I  have  funny 
moods  that  last  for  days  and  days  sometimes.  I  seem  to  do  every 
one  harm  I  come  in  touch  with.  There's  my  father  now.  I  love 
him  more  than  any  one  in  the  world,  and  yet  I  make  bim  unhappy 
all  the  time.    I'm  a  bad  fellow  to  be  with " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  looked  at  her  and  laughed.  "  It  isn't  any 
good,  Maggie.  .  .  .  You  haven't  any  idea  what  a  sweep  I  am. 
You'd  hate  me  if  you  really  knew." 

She  looked  steadily  back  at  him.  "  We  haven't  much  time,"  she 
said,  speaking  with  steady,  calm  conviction  as  though  she  had,  for 
years,  been  expecting  just  such  a  conversation  as  this,  and  had 
thought  out  what  she  would  say.  "  Aunt  Elizabeth  can  come  back 
earlier  than  she  said.  Perhaps  I  shall  say  something  I  oughtn't 
to.  I  don't  care.  The  whole  thing  is  that  I  love  you.  I  suppose 
it's  true  that  I  don't  know  anything  about  men,  but  I'd  be  poor 
enough  if  my  love  for  you  just  depended  on  your  loving  me  back, 
and  on  your  being  good  to  me  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I've  nevei  had 
any  one  I  could  love  until  you  came,  but  now  that  you  have  come 
it  can't  be  anything  that  you  can  do  that  can  alter  it.  If  you  were 
to  go  away  I'd  atill  love  you,  because  it's  the  love  in  me  that 


THE  CHOICE 


169 


matteri.  not  what  I  get  for  it.    Perhaps  you'll  make  ma  nnhappy, 
but  anyway  one  will  be  unhappy  some  of  the  time." 

She  went  up  to  him  and  kissed  him.  "  I  know  Caroline  Smith 
or  some  one  would  be  very  shocked  if  they  thought  I'd  eaid  such 
things  to  you,  but  I  can't  help  what  ihey  say." 

He  had  a  movement  to  catch  her  and  hold  her,  but  he  kept  him- 
self off,  moved  away  from  her,  turning  hii  back  to  her. 

"You  don't  understand  .  .  .  you  don't  undersUnd,"  he  re- 
peated. "  You  know  nothing  about  men,  Maggie,  and  you  know 
nothing  about  me.  I  tell  you  I  wouldn't  be  faithful  to  you,  and  I'd 
he  drunk  sometimes,  and  I'd  have  moods  for  days,  when  I'd  just 
sulk  and  not  speak  to  a  soul.  I  think  those  moods  some  damned 
sort  of  religion  when  I'm  in  them,  but  what  they  really  are  is  bad 
temper.  You've  got  to  know  it,  Maggie.  I'd  be  rotten  to  you, 
however  much  I  wanted  not  to  be." 

"  That's  my  own  affair,"  she  answered.  "  I  can  look  after  my- 
self. And  for  all  the  rest,  I'm  independent  and  I'll  always 
be  independent.  TV,  love  you  whether  you're  good  to  me  or 
bad." 

"  Well,  then,"  he  suddenly  wheeled  round  to  her,  "  you'd  better 
have  it  .   .   .  I'm  married  already." 

She  took  that  with  a  little  startled  cry.    Her  eyes  searched  h  s 
face  in  a  puzzled  fashion  as  though  she  were  pursuing  the  truth. 
Then  she  said  like  a  child  who  sees  some  toy  broken  before  its 
eves: 
"Oh,  Martini" 

"  Yes.  Nobody  knows— not  a  soul.  It  was  a  mad  thing— four 
years  ago  in  Marseilles  I  met  a  girl,  a  little  dressmaker  there.  I 
went  off  my  head  and  married  her,  and  then  a  month  lati..-  she  ran 
off  with  a  merchant  chap,  a  Gieek.  I  didn't  care;  we  got  on  as 
badly  as  anything  ...  but  there  you  are.  No  one  knows.  That's 
the  whole  thing.  Maggie.  I  thought  at  first  I  wouldn't  tell  you.  I 
was  beginning  to  care  for  you  too  much,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  and 
then  when  your  uncle  asked  me  to  dinner,  I  told  myself  I  was  a  fool 
to  go.  Then  when  I  saw  how  ycu  trusted  me,  I  thought  I'd  be  a 
cad  and  let  it  continue,  bdt  somehow  .  .  .  you've  got  an  influence 
over  me.  .  .  .  You've  made  me  ashamed  of  things  I  wouldn|t 
have  hesitated  about  a  year  ago.  And  the  funny  thing  is  it  isi-'t 
your  looks.  I  can  say  things  to  you  I  couldn't  to  other  women, 
and  111  tell  you  right  away  that  there  are  lots  of  women  attract 
me  more.  And  yet  I've  never  felt  about  any  woman  as  I  do  about 
you,  that  I  wanted  to  be  good  to  her  and  care  for  her  and  love  her. 
It's  always  whether  they  loved  me  that  I've  thought  about.  .    .   . 


170 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I  that  I'd  better  go,  hadn't  It    Tou 


Well,  now  I've  told  you,  you  i 
•ee  .   .   .  you  aee." 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"  I've  got  to  think.  It  makes  a  difference,  of  courm.  Can  we 
meet  after  a  week  and  talk  again  ? " 

"  Much  better  if  I  don't  see  you  any  more.  I'll  go  away  alto- 
gether— abroad  again." 

"  No— after  a  week " 

"Much  better  not." 

"  Yes.  Come  here  after  a  week.  And  if  we  can't  be  alone  I'll 
give  you  a  letter  somehow.  .   .   .  Please,  Martin— you  must." 

"  Maggie,  just  think " 

"No— after  a  week." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  he  turned  on  her  fiercely.  "  I've  been  honest. 
I've  told  you.  I've  done  all  I  can.  If  I  love  you  now  it  isn't 
my  fault." 

He  left  the  room,  not  looking  at  her  again.  And  she  stood  there, 
staring  in  front  of  her. 


CHAPTEK  VI 


THE  PROPHET  I2J  HIS  OWN  HOME 

MARTIN  walked  into  the  street  with  a  confused  sense  of 
triumph  and  defeat,  that  confusion  that  comes  to  all  sensi- 
tive men  at  the  moment  when  they  are  stepping,  against  their 
will,  from  one  set  of  conditions  into  another.  He  had  gone  into 
that  house,  only  half  an  hour  ago,  determined  to  leave  Maggie  for 
erer— for  his  good  and  hers.  He  came  back  into  the  street  realis- 
ing that  he  was  now,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  quite  definitely  in- 
volved in  some  relation  with  her— good,  bad,  safe,  dangerous  he 
did  not  know— but  involved.  He  had  intended  to  tell  her  nothing 
of  his  marriage— and  he  had  told  her.  He  had  intended  to  treat 
their  whole  meeting  aa  something  light,  passing,  inconsiderable- 
he  had  instead  treated  it  as  something  of  the  utmost  gravity.  He 
had  intended,  above  all,  to  prove  to  himself  that  he  could  do  what 
be  wished— he  had  found  that  he  had  no  power. 

And  so,  as  he  stepped  through  the  dim  gold-dust  of  the  evening 
light  he  was  stirred  with  an  immense  sense  of  having  stepped, 
definitely  at  last,  across  the  threshold  of  new  adventure  and  enter- 
prise. All  kinds  of  problems  were  awaiting  solution— his  relation 
to  his  father,  his  mother,  his  sister,  his  home,  his  past,  his  future, 
his  sins  and  his  weaknesses- and  he  had  meant  to  solve  them  all, 
as  he  had  often  solved  them  in  the  past,  by  simply  cutting  adrift. 
But  now,  instead  of  that,  he  had  decided  to  stay  and  face  it  all  out, 
he  had  confessed  at  last  that  secret  that  he  had  hidden  from  all 
the  world,  and  he  had  submitted  to  the  will  of  a  girl  whom  ho 
scarcely  knew  and  was  not  even  sure  that  he  liked. 

He  stopped  at  that  for  a  moment  and,  standing  in  a  little  pool 
of  purple  light  under  the  benignant  friendliness  of  a  golden  moon 
new  risen  and  solitary,  he  considered  it.  No,  he  did  not  know 
whether  he  liked  her— it  was  interest  rather  that  drew  him.  her 
strangeness,  her  strength  and  loneliness,  young  and  solitary  like  the 
moon  above  him— and  yet— also  some  feeling  softer  than  interest 
so  that  he  was  suddenly  touched  as  he  thought  of  her  and  spoke  out 
aloud:  "  I'll  be  good  to  her— whatever  happens,  by  God  I'll  be  good 
to  her,"  so  that  a  chauffeur  near  him  turned  and  looked  with  hard 
scornful  eyes,  and  a  girl  somewhere  laughed.  With  all  hia  conven- 
tional dislike  of  being  in  any  way  "odd"  he  walked  hurriedly  on, 
171 


172 


THE  CAPTIVES 


confused  and  wondering  more  than  ever  what  it  was  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him.  Always  before  he  had  known  his  own  mind — now, 
in  ererjrthing,  he  seemed  to  be  pulled  two  ways.  It  was  as  though 
some  spell  had  been  thrown  over  him. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  and  he  walked  slowly,  not  wishing 
to  enter  his  house  too  quickly.  He  realised  that  he  had,  during  the 
last  weeks,  found  nothing  there  but  trouble.  And  if  Maggie  wished, 
in  spite  of  what  he  had  told  her,  to  go  on  with  him?  And  if  hi-» 
father,  impatient  at  last,  definitely  asked  him  to  stay  at  home 
altogether  and  insisted  on  an  answer?  And  if  his  gradually  in- 
creasing estrangement  with  his  sister  broke  into  open  quarrel '. 
And  if,  strangest  of  all,  this  religious  business,  that  in  such  mani- 
festations as  the  Chapel  service  of  last  night  he  hated  with  all 
his  soul,  held  him  after  all? 

He  was  in  Garrick  Street,  outside  the  curiosity  shop,  his  latch- 
key in  Ids  hand.  lie  stopped  and  stared  down  the  street  as  he  had 
done  once  before,  weeks  ago.  Was  not  the  root  of  all  his  trouble 
simply  this,  that  he  was  becoming  against  his  will  interested,  drawn 
in?  That  there  were  things  going  on  that  his  common  sense  re- 
jected as  nonsense,  but  that  nevertheless  were  throwing  out  feeler? 
like  the  twisting  threats  of  an  octopus,  touching  liim  now,  only 
faintly,  here  for  a  second,  there  for  a  second,  but  fascinating,  hold- 
ing him  so  that  he  could  not  run  away?  Granted  that  Thurston 
was  a  charlatan.  Miss  Avies  a  humbug,  his  sister  a  fool,  his  father 
a  dreamer,  Crashaw  a  fanatic,  did  that  mean  that  the  power  behind 
them  all  was  sham?  Was  that  force  that  he  had  felt  when  he 
was  a  child  simply  eager  superstition?  What  was  behind  this 
street,  this  moon,  these  hurrying  figures,  his  own  daily  life  and 
thoughts?  Was  there  really  a  vast  conspiracy,  a  huge  involving 
plot  moving  under  the  cardboard  surface  of  the  world,  a  plot  that 
he  had  by  an  accident  of  birth  spied  upon  and  discovered? 

Always,  every  day  now,  thoughts,  suspicions,  speculations  were 
coming  upon  him,  uninvited,  undcsired.  from  somewhere,  from 
some  one.  He  did  not  w.mt  them — he  wanted  only  the  material 
physical  life  of  the  ordinary  man.  It  must  be  because  he  wa« 
idling.  He  would  get  work  at  once,  join  with  some  one  in  th<- 
City.  go  abroad  again  .  .  .  but  perhaps  even  then  he  woulil  not 
escape.  Thoughts  like  those  of  the  last  weeks  did  not  depend  for 
their  urgency  on  place  or  time.  And  Maggie,  she  was  mixed  up 
in  it  all.  He  was  aware,  as  he  hesitated  before  opening  the  door, 
of  the  strangest  feeling  of  belonging  to  her,  not  love,  nor  passion, 
not  sentiment  even.  Only  as  though  he  had  suddenly  realised  thit 
with  new  perils  he  had  received  also  new  protection. 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME 


173 


of 


He  went  upstairs  with  a  feeling  that  he  was  on  the  eve 
events  that  would  change  his  whole  world. 

As  Martin  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  black  crooked  Btair<|a8<i 
he  was  ccTiscious,  as  though  it  had  been  shown  him  in  a  Tision. 
that  he  was  on  the  edge  of  some  scene  that  might  shape  for 
him  the  whole  course  of  his  future  life.  He  had  been  aware,  once 
or  twice  before,  of  such  a  premonition,  and,  as  with  most  men.  halt 
ol  him  had  rejected  and  half  of  him  received  the  warning.  To- 
ilav.  however,  there  were  reasons  enough  for  thinking  this  no  mere 
liaseleas  .'superstition.  With  Maggie,  with  his  father,  with  his 
sister,  with  his  own  life  the  decision  had  got  to  be  taken,  and  it 
was  with  an  abrupt  determination  that  he  would  end,  at  all  costs, 
the  fears  and  uncertainties  of  these  last  weeks  that  he  pushed 
back  the  hall-door  and  entered.  He  noticed  at  once  strange  gar- 
ments hanging  on  the  rack  and  a  bright  purple  umbrella  which 
belonged,  as  he  knew,  to  a  certain  Mrs.  Alweed,  a  friend  of  his 
mothers  and  a  faithful  servant  of  the  Chapel,  stiff  and  assertive 
in  the  umbrella-stand.  There  was  a  tea-party  apparently.  Well, 
he  could  not  face  that  immediately.  He  would  have  to  go  in  after- 
wards   .    .    .    meanwhile    ...  j  j 

He  turned  down  the  passage,  pushed  back  his  father  s  door  and 
entered.  He  paused  abruptly  in  the  doorway,  there,  standing  in 
front  of  the  window  facing  him,  his  pale  chin  in  the  air,  his  legs 
apart,  supercilious  and  self-confident,  stood  Thurston.  His  father  -s 
desk  was  littered  with  papers,  rustling  and  blowing  a  little  in  the 
breeze  from  the  window  that  was  never  perfectly  closed. 

One  candle,  on  the  edge  of  the  desk,  its  flame  swaying  in  the 
air  was  the  only  light.  Martin's  first  impulse  was  to  turn  abruptly 
back  again  and  go  up  to  his  room.  He  could  not  speak  to  that 
fellow  now,  he  could  not!  He  half  turned.  Then  something 
stopped  him: 

"  tlalloo!"  he  said.     "Where's  father? 

"  Don't  know,"  said  Thurston,  sucking  the  words  through  his 
teeth.    "  I've  been  wanting  him  too." 

••  Well,  as  he  isn't  here "  said  Martin  fiercely. 

•'No  use  me  waiting?    Quite  so.     All  the  same  I'm  going  to 

The  two  figures  were  strangely  contrasted,  Martin  red-brown 
with  health,  thick  and  square.  Thurston  pale  with  a  spotted  com- 
plexion, dim  and  watery  eyes,  legs  and  arms  like  sticks,  his  black 
clothes  shabby  and  his  boots  dusty.  ,       .     ,     , 

Nevertheless  at  that  moment  it  was  Thurston  who  had  the 
power.    He  moved  forward  from  the  window. 


174 


THE  CAPTIVES 


aoesnt  lU     Oh,  I  know.    ...    You  can't  kid  me.     I've  seen 
*'™  »he  first.    You  fair  loathe  the  sight  of  me '' 

'That a  nothine  to  do  with  it," said  Martin  uneasily.    '<  Whether 
we  hke  one  Mother  or  not,  there's  no  need  to  disJusf  it." 

"Oh,  isn't  there!"  said  Thuraton,  coming  a  little  closer  so 

•WhS^nT?  Zl'^u  "?J,'Ji"=«"y  under  the  light  o    the^ndle 

Why  not?    Why  shouldn't  we  f    What's  the 'arm?    Ibelieve  in 

wavZlf'wT'^'^'^i   I  do  really.    I've  said  to  m^setf  a  long 

way  back.    Well,  now,  the  first  time  I  get  'im  alone  I'll  ..k  lii™ 

mvllf  -""/"IV'*  "f-    F'"  '''^'''  "^  "™  to  h1m,''lty    ." 
7lil:„    t  '■'*  ^'\"  *  Pu'f  '■''"-«'  ^'"  '""t  o'k  him  straight.' " 
buf»l^,h'""^TK"  ^■"""'ders;  he  wanted  to  leave  the  room, 
but  something  in  Thurston  held  him  there 

.rol'LTr'?  "'  aren't  the  sort  to  get  on  together.    We  haven't 
got  enough  in  common,"  he  said  clumsily 

"I  don't  know  about  that."  Thurston  said  in  a  friendly  conver- 
sational  tone.    "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we've  got  mo«  in  coZon 

Ilw.vfr^J''"''-  ^""u^'"  *""  yo"  "«•"  °"t-  I  like  youTve 
always  Jiked  yon,  and  what's  more  I  always  shall.    Whatever  you 

ornot;""'  '""'"  ''"'''  '°  *'"'*'°  '°*"'^'  ""''ether  you  like  me 

T  1'^°'  ^1,'"°''  ^"l"  '^''"''•"  Thurston  continued  quietly.  "And 
I  know  what  you  think  of  me,  too.     This  is  your  ide7of  me   I 

I^!.'  ri.-  '^'f'""'  business  to  shove  himself  along  with- 
that  8  kidding  all  these  poor  old  ladies  that  'e  believes  in  X'; 
bunkum,  and  is  altogether  about  as  low-down  a  fellow  a  you'^ 
hkely  to  meet  with.    That's  about  the  colour  of  it.  isn't  it"  " 

"  Y  "°  'n  »  ?.u '''''*■    '^''**  "'"^  "^'"'y  "  "«=  «■'<""•  of  it." 
.<  n/  T  Z'"'"'"''  "continued,  a  faint  flush  on  his  pale  cheeks 

I  »i?,T  ^  .^"°"  *'"'^  '"  f"^^'-    ^"'^  I'"  *•="  y"  the  idea  tha 
I  m.sA<  ave  of  you-only  might  'ave,  mind  .you.    Why,  that  you're 
a  stuck-up  Ignorant  sort  of  feller,  that's  been  rolling  up  and  down 

iLZ"\f^T;  ''!''  "  *";*  "*  ■"•'"^y'  ™"«^  0™'  and  buUiefws 
father,  thinks  'e  knows  better  than  every  one  about  things  'e 
knows  nothing  about  whatever "  * 

"i'telTvouTHon'^""'°"''i  *''"*'°  interrupted,  stepping  forward. 

1  tell  you  I  don  t  care  a  twopenny  curse  what  a  man  like " 

I  only  said  miff«,  mind  you."  said  Thurston,  smiling.  "It's 
only  a  short-sighted  fool  would  think  that  of  you  really.  And  I'm 
not  a  fool.    No,  «»lly,  I'm  not.    I've  got  quite  Jt^her  idea  of 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME  175 

you.  My  idea  ia  that  you're  one  of  us  whether  you  want  to  be 
or  not,  and  that  you  alwaya  will  be  one  of  ua.  That's  why  I  like 
you  and  will  be  a  friend  to  you  too." 

^^  "  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  your  damned  friendship,"  Martin  cried. 
"  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  you  or  your  opinion  or 
your  plans  or  anything  else." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Thurston.  "  I  quite  understand.  It's 
natural  enough  to  feel  as  you  do.  But  I'm  afraid  you'll  'ave  to 
ave  something  to  do  with  me.  I'm  not  quite  what  you  think  me, 
and  you're  not  quite  what  you  think  yourself.  There's  two  of 
each  of  us,  that's  the  truth  of  it.  I  may  be  a  sham  and  a  charlatan, 
one  part  of  me,  I  don't  know  I'm  sure.  I  certainly  don't  believe 
all  your  governor  does.  I  don't  believe  all  I  say  and  I  don't  say  all 
I  think.  But  then  'oo  does!  You  don't  yourself.  I'll  even  tell 
you  straight  out  that  when  I  just  came  into  the  business  I  laughed 
at  the  lot  of  'em,  your  father  and  all.  '  A  silly  lot  o'  softs  they 
are,'  I  said  to  myself,  '  to  believe  all  that  nonsense.'  But  now— 
I  don't  know.  When  you've  been  at  this  game  a  bit  you  scarcely 
know  what  you  do  believe,  that's  the  truth  of  it.  There  may  be 
something  in  it  after  all.  Sometimes  .  .  .  well,  it  'ud  surprise 
you  if  you'd  seen  all  the  things  I  have.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  ghosts 
and  spirits  and  all  that  kind  of  nonsense.  No,  but  the  kind  of 
thing  that  'appens  to  people  you'd  never  expect.  You're  getting 
caught  into  it  yourself;  I've  watched  you  all  along.  But  that  isn"' 
the  point.  The  point  is  that  I'm  not  so  bad  as  you  think,  nor  so 
simple  neither.  And  life  isn't  so  simple,  nor  religion,  nor  love,  nor 
anything  as  you  think  it.  You're  young  yet,  you  know.  Very 
young." 

Martin  turned  back  to  the  door. 

"All  very  interesting,  Thurston,"  he  said.  "You  can  think 
what  you  like,  of  course.  All  the  same,  the  less  we  see  of  one 
another " 

"  Well."  said  Thurston  slowly,  smiling.  "  That'll  be  a  bit  diffi- 
cult—to avoid  one  another,  I  mean.  You  ace,  I'm  going  to  marn 
your  sister." 

Martin  laughed.  Inside  him  something  was  saying:  "  Now,  look 
Out.  This  is  all  a  trap.  He  doesn't  mean  what  he  says.  He's 
trying  to  catch  you." 

"  Going  to  marry  Amy?    Oh  no,  you're  not." 

Thurston  did  not  appear  to  be  interested  in  anything  that  Martin 
had  to  say.  He  continued  as  though  he  were  pursuing  his  own 
thoughts.  "  Yes  .  .  .  so  it'll  be  difficult.  I  didn't  think  you'd 
like  it  when  you  heard.    I  «aid  to  Amy,  •  'E  won't  like  it,'  I  said. 


i||l 


m 


THE  CAPTIVES 


.1.     s 

'i,     i' 


She  said  you'd  been  too  long  away  from  the  family  to  judge.  And 
BO  you  have,  ynu  know.  Oh  I  Amy  and  I'U  be  right  enough. 
She's  a  fine  woman,  your  sister." 

Uartin  bunt  out: 

"  Well,  then,  that  settles  it.  It  simply  settles  it  That  finishes 
it." 

"Finishes  what!"  asked  Thurston,  smiling  in  a  friendly  way. 

"  Never  you  mind.  It's  nothing  to  do  with  you.  Has  my  fatlur 
consented?" 

"  Yes  .  .  .  said  all  'e  wanted  was  for  Amy  to  be  'appy.  And 
M  she  will  be.  I'll  look  after  her.  You'll  come  round  to  it  in 
time." 

"Father  agrees.  ,  .  .  Uy  QodI  But  it's  impossible!  Don't 
you  see?    Don't  you  see?    I    .   .   ." 

The  sudden  sense  of  bis  impotenoe  called  back  his  words.  He 
felt  nothing  but  rage  and  indignation  against  the  whole  set  of 
them,  against  the  house  they  were  in,  the  very  table  with  the 
papera  blowing  upon  it  and  the  candle  shining.  .  .  .  Well,  it 
made  bis  own  affair  more  simple — that  was  certain.  He  must  be 
off — right  away  from  them  all.  Stay  in  the  house  with  that  fellow 
for  a  brother-in-law?    Stay  when  .    .    . 

"  It'a  all  right,"  aaid  Thurston,  moistening  his  pale  dry  lips  with 
his  tongue.  "  You'll  see  it  in  time.  It's  the  best  thing  that  could 
'appen.  And  we've  got  more  in  common  than  you'd  ever  sup- 
pose. We  'ave,  really.  You're  a  religious  man,  really — can't  escape 
your  destiny,  you  know.  There's  religious  and  non-religious  and 
it  doesn't  matter  what  your  creed  is,  whether  you're  a  Christian  or 
a  'Ottentot,  there  it  is.  And  if  you're  religious,  you're  religious.  I 
may  be  the  greatest  humbug  on  the  market,  but  I'm  religious.  It's 
like  'aving  a  'are  lip — ^you'll  be  bothered  with  it  all  your  life." 

But  what  more  Thurston  may  have  tiUl  Martin  did  not  hear: 
be  had  left  the  room,  banging  the  door  behind  him.  On  what  was 
his  indignation  based?  Injured  pride.  And  was  be  really  indig- 
nant? Was  not  something  within  him  elated,  because  by  this  he 
had  been  offered  his  freedom?  Thurston  marry  his  sister?  .  .  . 
He  could  go  his  own  way  now.  Even  his  father  could  not  expect 
him  to  remain. 

And  he  wanted  Maggie — urgently,  passionately.  Standing  for 
a  moment  there  in  the  dark  passage  he  wanted  her.  He  was  lonely, 
disregarded,  despised. 

They  did  not  care  fcr  him  here,  no  one  cared  for  him  anywhere 
— only  Uaggie  who  was  clear-eyed  and  truthful  and  sure  beyond 
any  human  being  whom  he  had  ever  known. 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME 


177 


Then,  with  a  rery  youthful  ienm  uf  challenging  this  world  that 
had  so  grossly  insulted  him  by  admitting  Thurston  into  the  heart 
of  it,  he  joined  the  ten-party.  There  in  the  pink,  close,  sugar- 
smelling,  soft  atmosphere  set  his  mother.  Amy,  Mrs.  Alwecd  ami 
little  Miss  Pyncheon.  His  mother,  with  her  lace  cap  and  white 
hair  and  soft  plump  harjds,  was  pouring  tea  through  a  strainer 
as  though  it  were  a  rite.  On  her  plate  were  three  little  frilly 
papers  that  had  held  sugary  cakes,  on  her  lips  were  fragments 
of  sugar.  Amy,  in  an  ugly  grey  dress,  sat  severely  straight  upon 
a  hard  chair  and  was  apparently  listening  to  Miss  Pynchcon.  but 
her  eyes,  suspicious  and  restless,  moved  like  the  eyes  of  .i  newly 
captured  v'nimal.  Mrs.  Alweed,  stout  in  pink  with  a  large  hat  full 
of  roses,  smiled  and  smiled,  waiting  only  for  a  moment  when  she 
could  amble  off  once  again  into  space  safe  on  the  old  broad  buck  of 
her  family  experiences,  the  only  conversational  steed  to  whose  car« 
she  ever  entrusted  herself.  She  had  a  son  Hector,  a  husband, 
Mr.  Alweed,  and  a  sister-in-law,  Miss  Alweed ;  she  had  the  greatest 
confidence  in  the  absorbed  attention  of  the  slightest  of  her  ac- 
quaintances. "  Hector,  he's  my  boy,  you  know — although  why  I 
call  him  a  boy  I  can't  think — because  he's  twenty-two  and  a  half — 
he's  at  Cambridge,  Christs  College— well,  this  morning  I  had  a  let- 
ter .  .  ."  she  would  begin.  She  began  now  upon  Martin.  His  mind 
wandered.  He  looked  about  the  little  room  and  thought  of  Thurston. 
Why  was  he  not  more  angry  about  it  allt  He  bad  pretended  to 
be  indignant,  he  had  hated  Thurston  as  he  stood  there.  .  .  . 
But  had  he?  Half  of  him  hated  him.  Then  with  a  jerk  Thurs- 
ton's words  came  back  to  him :  "  There's  two  of  each  of  us,  that's 
the  truth  of  it."  "Two  of  each  of  us.  ..."  Sitting  there, 
listening  to  Mrs.  Alweed's  voice  that  iiowed  like  a  river  behind 
him.  he  saw  the  two  figures,  saw  them  quite  clearly  and  distinctly, 
flesh  and  blood,  even  clothes  and  voices  and  smile.  And  he  knew 
that  all  his  life  these  two  figures  had  been  growing,  waiting  for 
the  moment  when  he  would  recognise  them.  One  figure  was  U.) 
Martin  whom  he  knew — brown,  healthy,  strong  and  sane;  a  figure 
wearing  his  clothes,  his  own  clothes,  the  tweeds  and  the  cloths, 
the  brogues  and  the  heavy  boots,  the  soft  untidy  hats ;  the  figur : 
was  hard,  definite,  resolute,  quarrelling,  arguing,  loving,  joking, 
swearing  all  in  the  sensible  way.     It  was  a  figure  that  all  the 

world  had  understood,  that  had  been  drunk  often  enough,  lent 
other  men  money,  been  hard-up  and  extravagant  and  thoughtless. 
"  A  good  chap."  "  A  sensible  fellow."  "  A  pal."  "  No  flies  on 
Warlock."  That  was  the  kind  of  figure.  And  the  life  had  been 
physical,  had  never  asked  questions,  had  never  known  morbidity. 


178 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Imd  liretl  on  whit  it  Mw  «nd  could  touch  and  could  bicak.  .  ,  . 
And  the  other  figure!  That  was,  phytically,  leu  plaiuly  a«ni. 
No,  there  it  was,  Htanding  a  littlo  away  from  the  other,  sunding 
away,  cantemptuounly,  despining  it,  deriding  it.  I'nt,  «oft,  white 
lianging  cbccka,  wearing  anything  to  cover  ita  body,  but  ahining 
ill  «onio  way  through  the  clothca,  ao  that  it  waa  body  that  you  aaw. 
A  Hoft  body,  handa  aoft  and  the  colour  of  the  fleah  pale  ani.  uu- 
hoaltliy.  But  it  waa  the  eyes  that  spoke:  the  mouth  trembled  and 
was  weak,  the  chin  waa  fat  and  feeble,  but  the  eyes  lived,  lived— 
were  eager,  fighting,  beseeching,  longing,  captive  eyes  I 

And  this  figure,  Martin  knew,  was  a  prey  to  every  morbid  desire, 
rushed  to  sensual  excess  and  then  crept  back  miserably  to  search 
for  some  spiritual  fiagellation.  Above  all,  it  was  restless,  as  some 
one  presses  round  a  dark  room  searching  for  the  lock  of  the  door, 
restless  and  lonely,  cowardly  and  selfish,  but  searching  and  aenai- 
tive  and  even  faithful,  faithful  to  something  or  to  some  one  .  .  . 
pursued  also  by  something  or  some  one.  A  figure  to  whom  this 
world  offered  only  opportunities  for  sin  rnd  failure  and  defeat, 
but  a  figure  to  whom  this  world  was  the  merest  shadow  hiding, 
as  a  shade  hides  a  lamp,  the  life  within.  Wretched  en  ugh  with 
ita  bad  health,  its  growing  corpulence,  ita  weak  mouth,  its  furtive 
desires,  but  despising,  nevertheless,  the  strong,  healthy  figure  he- 
aide  it.  Thurston  was  right.  Men  are  not  bom  to  be  free,  hut 
to  fight,  to  the  very  death,  for  the  imprisonment  and  destruction 
of  all  that  is  easiest  and  most  physically  active  and  most  pleasant 
to  the  sight  and  touch.    .   .   . 

"And  eo  Hector  really  hopes  that  he'll  be  able  to  get  down 
to  us  for  Christmas,  although  he's  been  asked  to  go  on  this  read- 
ing party.  Of  course,  it'a  simply  a  queation  as  to  whether  he 
works  better  at  home  or  with  his  friends.  If  he  were  a  weak  char- 
acter, I  think  Mr.  Alweed  would  insist  in  his  coming  home,  but 
Hector  really  carea  for  his  work  more  than  anything.  He's  never 
been  very  good  at  games;  his  short  sight  prevents  him,  poor  boy, 
and  as  he  very  justly  remarked,  when  he  was  home  last  holidaya, 
'  1  don't  see,  mother,  how  I  am  going  to  do  my  duty  as  a  solicitor 
(that's  what  he  hopes  to  be)  if  I  don't  work  now.  Many  men 
regard  Cambridge  as  a  time  for  play.    Not  so  I.' 

"  But  I  hope  that  if  Hector  comes  home  this  Christmas  he'll 
attend  the  Chapel  services.  The  influence  your  father  might  have 
on  such  a  boy  as  Hector,  Mr.  Warlock,  a  boy,  sensitive  and 
thoughtful.    ...    I  waa  saying,  Miss  Pyncheon,  that  Hector " 

Miss  Pyncheon  waa  the  soul  of  good-nature — but  she  was  much 
more  than  that.    She  was  by  far  the  most  sensible,  genial,  and 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME 


179 


worldly  of  the  Inaido  Sainti;  it  wm,  in  fact,  utoniihing  tiut  aho 
thoald  be  an  Inside  Saint  at  all. 

Of  tlwin  all  she  im|in«wd  Martin  the  moat,  beoiuae  there  wax 
nothing  of  the  crank  oliout  h«r.  She  went  to  thvutres,  to  the 
■eaxide  in  the  aummcr.  took  in  The  Quren,  and  was  a  subacribir 
to  Booti'  Circulating  Library.  Site  drmwd  (|uirtly  atid  in  ex<'('l- 
Itiit  taste — in  grr>  nr  black  and  white.  Shu  had  jolly  brown  e.rea 
and  a  dimple  in  the  middle  of  her  chin.  She  nan  ready  to  discuxa 
any  tiueition  with  any  (>ne,  was  marvellously  broad*mindcd  and 
tolerant,  and  filthc  iirh  she  wo«  both  |i"or  and  gcni-rous,  alwaya 
succeeded  in  mnking  her  little  flat  in  S^.ho  Square  pretty  and  at- 
tractive. 

Her  chi<?f  f:iii)L,  portuipa,  was  that  ahe  cared  for  no  one  es- 
pecially— he  had  neithf-r  lovers  nor  parents  nor  sisters  nor 
brothers,  and  to  all  hor  friends  »he  behaved  with  the  tame  kind 
geniality,  welcoming  ont'  its  another.  She  was  thus  aloof  from 
them  uU  and  relied  i-.i  on  no  one.  The  centre  of  her  life  was, 
of  course,  her  religion,  but  of  this)  she  never  spoke,  although 
strangely  enough  no  one  doubted  the  intensity  of  her  belief  and 
the  reality  of  her  devotion. 

She  was  ■>  determined  follower  of  Mr.  Warlock;  what  he  said 
she  believed,  but  here,  toe,  there  seemed  to  be  no  personal  attach- 
ment. She  did  not  allow  criticism  of  him  in  her  own  presence, 
but.  on  the  other  hand,  she  never  spoke  as  though  it  would  distress 
her  very  greutly  to  low  him.  He  was  a  sign,  a  symbol.  .  ,  .  If 
one  symbol  went  another  could  be  found. 

To  Martin  she  was  the  one  out-standing  proof  of  the  reality 
of  the  Chapel.  All  the  others — his  sister.  Miss  Avies,  Thunton, 
Crashaw,  the  Miss  Cardinals,  yes,  and  his  father  too.  were,  in 
oni  way  or  another,  eccentric,  abnormal,  but  Miss  P.yncheon  was 
the  sane  every-day  world,  the  worldly  world,  the  world  of  drinks 
and  dinnors,  and  banks  and  tobacconists,  and  yet  she  believed  ait 
profoundly  as  nny  of  them.  What  did  she  believe?  She  was  an 
Inside  Saint,  therefore  she  must  have  accepted  this  whole  story 
of  the  Second  Coming  and  the  rest  of  it.  Of  course  women  would 
believe  anything.    .    .    .    Nevertheless    .    .    . 

He  scarcely  listened  to  their  chatter.  He  was  forcing  himself 
not  to  look  at  his  sister,  and  .vet  Thurston's  news  seemed  so  ex- 
traordinary to  him  that  his  eye  kept  stealing  round  to  her  to  ^ee 
whether  she  were  still  the  same.  Could  she  have  accepted  him. 
that  bounder  and  cad  and  charlatan?  He  felt  a  sudden  cold  chill 
of  isolation  as  though  in  this  world  none  of  the  ordinary  laws  were 
followed.    "  By  God,  1  am  a  stranger  here,"  be  thought. 


MIOOCOPV   HSCHUTION   TEST   CH*«T 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHAIIT  No-  2| 


^  APPLIED  iVHGE 

^^^  '653   Egsl    Mgin    Strrel 

BT^  Rochester.  Me*   Tofk        M609       Ui 

^S  1"6)   *8Z  -  0300  -  Phone 

^S  (^'6'   ZM  -  5989  -  Fan 


180 


THE  CAPTIVES 


hil\Xr\ThJ^*^' f^T'  *'"*  "''''"  """t  he  wa,  alone  with 
U18  latner.    lie  had  resolved  on  many  fine  thinM  ;„  ,u    ■  I       i 

was  perfectly  impossible."     And  then    inr  VhJ  Ih  jl    ? 

sinee  his  return  trEngland  he  felt  stL^W        ^""tf"?''"'  «"»« 

that  he  did  not  wa'nt  to  Tolkw     What  was  h.?far  ""If"**' 
w.th  all  this  business  for?     Why  were  such  men  »,  Th""."^  "^ 

InnU^     rf'^  ''L'  ^f"""  'y''"*  ''«''  '■"  his  arm-chair  fast  asleen 

determination  to  pursue  some  bfttle     And  a    the  ff.h,   "f ^K™ 
hus  worn  out  and  beaten  Martin's  affectton  floUd  h  tart     h" 

Syrrh^etd':^"  i^^^rV  ""  -'  '--  ^"  -^ 

~?r''r-.'^'^  "1  make  him  fat  and  happ^"      "^  "*  """^ 
Then  his  father  suddenly  woke  up,  with  a  start  and  .  cry- 

tinA'eTairsL'iiin,.-   "    ^"en  he  suddenly  saw  Martin"' -..Mar- 

trufat^t^Ltt'oti^itV^"  '^'''  "'  '""^-  "^''^"'  ^'^  -•» 

^nV"";/"  '■J'  ''^'^  ''*'™  ^""^  hefore,  that  his  father  had  to 
eall  himself  up  from  some  world  of  vision  before  he  eould  reali™ 
ZJ^'  !"«>u>>dings.  Martin  he  recognised  inturvelytiA 
the  recognifon  of  the  spirit,  but  he  seemed  to  take  "n    he  deraU. 

«^IV;'°hif-  r  ''"■'"'?;  I'  *''™*h  "inded  by  IL  ifght 
Ah-Ive  been  dreaming,"  he  said,  stiU  smiling  at  Martin 


THE  PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME 


181 


helpIeMly  and  almost  timidly.  "  I'm  so  tired  these  daya — sud- 
denly—I  uaen't  to  be.  .  .  ."  He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehiad. 
then  laid  it  on  Martin's  knee,  and  the  strength  and  wurmth  ol  that 
seemed  suddenly  to  fill  him  with  vigour. 

"  You're  netcr  tired,  are  you!"  he  asked  as  a  child  might  ask 
an  elder. 

"  Very  seldom,"  answered  Martin,  "  I  say,  father,  what  i»  all 
this  about  Thurston  !  " 

"Thurston.    .    .    .    Why,  what's  he  been  doing? " 

"  He  says  he's  engaged  to  Amy."  The  disgust  of  the  idea  made 
Martin's  words,  against  his  will,  sharp  and  angry. 

"  Does  he?    .    .    .    Yes,  I  remember.    He  spoke  to  me  about  it." 

"Of  course  it's  simply  his  infernal  check    ..." 

Mr.  Warlock  sighed.  "  1  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Amy  seemed  to 
wish  it." 

Martin  felt  then  more  strongly  than  before  the  Something  that 
drove  him.  It  said  to  him:  "Now,  then  .  .  .  here's  a  thing 
for  you  to  make  a  row  about — a  big  row.  And  then  you  can  go 
ofiE  with  Maggie."  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  Something 
that  said :  "  Don't  hurt  him.  Don't  hurt  him.  You  may  regret  it 
all  your  life  if    ..." 

If  what?  He  didn't  know.  He  was  always  threatened  with  re- 
gretting things  all  his  life.  The  blow  was  always  going  to  fall. 
And  that  pleasant  very  British  phrase  came  back  to  him,  "  He 
would  put  his  foot  down  " — however — be  waa  very  angry — very 
angry. 

He  burst  out:  "Oh,  but  that's  absurd,  father.  Impossible — 
utterly.  Thurston  in  the  family?  Why,  you  must  see  yourself 
how  monstrous  it  would  be.  Amy's  got  some  silly,  sentimental 
whim  and  she's  got  to  be  told  that  it  won't  do.  If  you  ask  me, 
I  don't  think  Amy's  improved  much  since  I  was  away.  But  that's 
not  the  question.  The  idea  of  Thurston's  disg^usting.  You  can't 
seriously  consider  it  for  a  minute    ..." 

"  Why  is  Thurston  disgusting,  my  boy?  " 

Martin  hated  to  be  called  "  my  boy  " — it  made  him  feel  so  young 
and  dependent. 

"  You've  only  got  to  look  at  him  I "  Martin  jumped  up,  dis- 
regarding his  father's  hand,  and  began  to  stamp  about  the  room. 
"  He's  a  cad — he's  not  y^iir  friend,  father.  He  isn't,  really.  He'd 
like  to  out  you  from  the  whole  thing  if  he  could.  He  thinks  you't» 
old-fashioned  and  behind  the  times,  and  all  he  thinks  about  i» 
bringing  in  subscriptions  and  collecting  new  converts.  He's  like 
one  of  those  men  who  beat  drums  outside  tenta  in  a  fair,  .   .  . 


'I  m 

Vii 


188 


THE  CAPTIVES 


■if 


probably  too.     You're  muoh  .1  ■  "'"1.'"  '"'"'^^'  ""^  '"moral 

and  trustful  »7  ."at  you  donTk"''  ^"'*'-  u^""'"  '»  ^-^^ 
doing  you  in.  There'aa  rLlr  nL  "  '"'*  ^^"^  ^'"'""  "^ 
most  awfully  please^ff  "yo^u"  "„  ?i  retr^Tr"  "'''  '''^''''  ""^ 
'■ko  you.  They  simply  use  the  rh,n»?V  P"?  '"  """  K^""'"* 
"..kins  money     Of^ur  e  there  -™  ^l^-advertisement  and 

iiiss  Cardinals,   but  ThuTsto„Tan     TT.*"""  ""  o"^"  "''«  ">« 
ile  stopped  ;hort  at  tha,      „e  hL      "^  "''"'^'^'-    '    "    •" 

I  'ov7yout,';''?han''a„';?hin°S'in'''tH"''^^^-  ,  "°°  ^^  '-'"'  «">* 
sometimes  terribly  afraid^'^'hl  God  HLrel?'"  r"*!  ^  ^"«'  ^'^ 
I  love  you.  Martin,  so  that  it"»  Hlil^  "    ^  '=""  *  •"«'»  "y^'f- 

the  only  earthly  passln  ,h  r  t  e.er'^L"  TTvu  '  "  '''' 
another  thinir      T.'a  tho  ™..  .  /      °^°-     ^^  HI  te  I  you 

leave  me.  /ow  that  rVrot'rLlTm'^f^'j;  '''^  **"!'  ^»^" 
go  out  of  the  house  that  vou'll  r„n  «  "'/  ^'^"^  ''"«  ?»" 

never  eome  back  a.ain  '/we  y'u  and^I'm'^,'  ''^  ^^f'  '">'^ 
Bo  a(rain.-Not  until-until-tlf«  V       I     "'"  «""°8  t"  l«t  you 

does  it  matter  to  you  and  mrwhatTh'  ^"^  ~?*-  '  "  "  '*^'"" 
will  come  and  He  will  findTs  toh  tl^tK  °°  "'"'  ^""^  <'°»  «<«» 
will  take  us  up  and  S  u,  tlJ.r'^'T^""  ""'^  I-^^d  «« 
separated  any  more        ^  T  uT^^"  '"^  "«  =''»"  ""er  be 

happiness,  your  youth-ail 'the  ,h?nJr"  '"™^.'''  ^"'^'°'  y"" 
not  going  to  leave  me  not  thnulh  T  ™  "^7"  ''»''■  ^nd  you're 
tons.    .       ."  '  ""'  *'""■«''  ^^°y  married  a  hundred  fhurs- 

Ma'rti^'hinl';?  ^^  "5  ''"  '''°''  '•'""'der  was  iron 

tolTnX" ,  r  t:i:izter„"' "''  i!'^^'-"'«  '^-'^ 

father  and  drew  him  close  to  wJ.  m  ^.  "'I'-J''^  "">  '°"°d  his 
lure-everything  se™«l  t„  ^,  "x*«'^'  "-'f^-  "oney,  Adven- 

self,  a  littb  boy^Xti  on  brreT";  !.™""  ""^  """^  "^^  ^"^  ^im- 

font  iu3t  as  th^X'^^riVarb^r/^rovi'Vif  *"""''' "-' 
Thl^r:forc\^:rr;^^v-^r  1  ^^-"'-'-^e  thought  of 

"  All   .!,»   .    "■"•»  "Bain.    JUartm  drew  awov  a  little 
All   the  same,   father."  ha   bj.;,!     •■  ti.      . 
Amy."  •     "*  ^»'d-      Thurston   mustn't  marry 


TUE  ?ROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  HOME  183 


I  tell  you  I  won't  stay  here 


"  They're  only  engaged.    There's  no  question  of  marriage  yet  " 

"Then  they  are  engaged?"  Martin  drew  right  jway,  atandinir 
up  again. 

"  Oh,  yes.  they're  engaged." 

"  Then  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it. 
if  Thurston  marries  Amy." 

Mr.  Warloclt  sighed.  "Well  then,  let's  leave  it,  my  boy.  I  dare- 
say they  11  never  marry." 

"No.    I  won't  have  it.    It's  too  serious  to  leave." 

His  father's  voice  was  sharper  suddenly. 

■'  Well,  we  won't  talk  about  it  just  now,  Martin,  if  you  don't 
mind. 

"  But  I  must.  You  cani  leave  a  thing  like  that.  Thurston  will 
simply  own  ♦he  place.    ..." 

"  I  leli  you,  Martin,  to  leave  it  alone."  They  were  both  angry 
now. 

"  And  I  tell  you,  father,  that  if  you  let  Thurston  marry  Amv 
I  leave  the  house  and  never  come  back  again." 

"Isn't  that  rather  selfish  of  you?  You've  been  away  all  these 
years.  You've  left  us  to  ourselves.  You  come  back  suddenly 
without  seeing  how  we  live  or  caring  and  then  you  dictate  to  us 
what  we  re  to  do.    How  can  you  expect  us  to  listen  ?  " 

"And  how  can  you  expect  me  to  stay?"  Martin  broke  into 
a  torrent  of  words:  "I'm  miserable  here  and  you  know  that  I 
am.  Mother  and  Amy  hate  me  and  you're  always  wrapped  up  in 
your  religion.  What  kind  of  a  place  is  it  for  a  fellow?  I  came 
back  meaning  that  you  and  I  should  be  the  best  pals  father  and  son 
have  ever  been,  but  you  wouldn't  come  out  with  me— you  only 
wanted  to  drag  me  in.  You  tell  me  always  to  wait  for  something 
To  wait  for  what?  I  don't  know.  And  nobody  here  does  seem 
to  know.  And  /  can't  wait  for  ever.  I've  got  to  lead  my  own 
life  and  if  you  won't  come  with  me  I  must  go  off  by  myself ' 

He  r.as  following  his  own  ideas  now— not  looking  at  his  father 
at  all.  "I've  discover  'nee  I've  been  home  that  I'm  not  the 
sort  of  fellow  to  settli  nn.  I  suppose  I  shall  go  on  wandering 
about  all  my  days.  I'l..  .lot  proud  of  my=elf.  you  know,  father. 
I  don't  seem  to  be  much  good  to  any  one,  but  the  trouble  is  I  don't 
want  to  be  much  better.  I  feel  as  though  it  wouldn't  be  much 
good  if  I  did  try.  I  can't  give  up  my  own  life— for  nobody— 
not  even  for  you— and  however  rotten  my  own  life  is  I'd  rather 
lead  it  than  some  one  else's." 

He  stopped  and  then  went  on  quietly,  as  though  he  were  argu- 
ing something  out  with  himself:  "The  strange  thing  is  that  I 


1S4 


THIi  CAPTIVES 


helpless  as  though  you  could  .in  »„v,l-  '^  f'*'"'  ''"^''  ""d  '«> 
the  same  1  .lonfj-evo  in  tW°"°f '''"'?  ^''h  ™^  ■-""  'i^e.  Ail 
Commg  and  the  rest  ofit  VVre"  ,h  •t"'"~,''"  "^'^  ^'''>'"^ 
you  know,  and  eyerjbody  knows Th«  ttt  1"'^'","'.^'""'^  "<"'• 
impossible.  Only  an  old'tnaTdCto  "  """whv  '"T  !'  .T"'' 
you  believe  in  it  really  father  Tk  ..  '  V  ^'  ^  '''""  believe 
making  me  believe     Z"  I  donVitl  "V""'"  »"  ''^"  o" 

I  don't  believe  there-rany  0^';  'dl  tT.h  ^°"  "'"'''  "'"'«  ">«• 
let  a  fellow  have  more  fr^  wHl  »      ""*"  "'*'*  "  «°d  ^e'd 

J'h^,''^\,;rrnrg.^^„:Vnri,^  ^'^^  ^^  ^--^  '» 

face  white,  his  eyes  black  and  e-nnfr!!^  ^^"^  ""  *'"'  ''^<'''-  ^8 

"Martin-     Th;-/,:,:i;h^Vr  '"'    "  TalfcriTk  , 

•   ■   •    Oh,  my  son,  my  son '  "         ^ate  «arel     Take  care! 

cha^rTsLrhTl^e^'SthLr'-   "°"^'""«   »"    '"   """ 
sprang  towards  him      He  eaLht  ?     "^  'T"  <<="«<"•     "artin 

"im  to  him-sometb  ng"  as  lealiTt  ""!;''  -"'^  ^"^^^  '•""ing 
his  father's  breast  "^ "*  ''''^  "  ^''"''"^  ^fitaal  inside 

distant.  "^b'J^,-  ."""^rdternT"'  '"  "h™'™/^'^  ^''  -<^ 
Amy    .   ,   ."  J^Aciiement    ,   .   ,    King  that  bell    . 

A  moment  later  Amv  ent*re/l     ci,  ... 

she  said  nothing-onrgate  Marti^rrok"""'"-'  '°"'  '"«  ~-' 

int'nt'rf^.l',::  """"  "'""^•'•'"^  ^™»  »  ""le  bottle,  kneeling 

"  #o?rdV"„S°  ht  ^'™'-^'-    "  ^"^'^  "-"  -"  »He  said. 

w^n^Stt^l-^e^Sf^-d^no^-^- 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  OITSIDE  WORLD 

MAGGIE  had  a  week. 
.Slu.  .li,i  not  med  it.    From  the  first  half-hour  after  Mar- 
'  ";  I™""'?,'''''  ''"  "»"J  «""<  'nude  up.     This  question  of  mar- 
nage  did  „ot,  on  further  reflection,  very  greatly  disturb  her.    Sh.- 
ha,l  known.  ,n  her  time,  a  number  of  married  people  and  they  had 
eon     nvur.ubly   unhappy   and   quarrelsome.     The   point   Jemecl 

loved,  and  she  had  only  loved  one   person   in   ail   her  life,   an.l 
intende,!  never  to  love  another.     Even  this  question  of  lore  was 

or  lid  >„  V       T  'T  '""f  ^^?"'  """''«'=  »"■'  ""^y  i"  "«=  most 
ord  d  fashion  about  sexual  relations  whieh  were  definitely  con- 

neeted  in  her  mmd  with  drunken  peasants  and  her  father's  cook 

They  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  Martin 

l7,^,^^       7       "'«,<'P'"'<>n  »'  ''"  »"nt8  and  Miss  Warloek  and 
with  these  she  was  already  in  rebellion. 

She  would  have  been  in  great  trouble  had  she  supposed  that  this 
woman  st,  1  loved  Martin  and  needed  him,  but  that,  from  wha 
Martin  had  said,  was  obviously  not  so.  No.  it  was  all  quite  elear 
They  would  escape  together,  out  of  this  tangle  of  unnatural  mys- 
teries and  warninps.  and  live  happily  for  ever  after  in  the  country. 

As  to  Martins  self-portrait,  that  did  not  greatly  distress  hor 
She  had  never  supposed  that  he  or  any  one  else  was  "good."  She 
had  never  known  a  "good"  person.  Nor  did  it  occur  to  her  in 
her  pristine  state  of  savagery,  that  you  loved  any  one  the  less'for 
heir  drawbacks.  She  would  rather  be  with  Martin  at  his  worst 
than  with  any  one  else  at  their  best— that  was  all. 

Half-an-hour  was  enough  time  to  settle  the  whole  affair  She 
then  waited  patiently  until  the  end  of  the  week.  She  did  not 
quite  know  how  she  would  arrange  a  meeting,  but  that  woula  she 
expected,  arrange  itself. 

Two  events  occurred  that  fillcl  her  mind  and  made  the  week 
pass  quickly.     One  was  that  she  received  an  answer  to  her  Td- 

18.-. 


I  I' 
I 

It 


'**^  TIIK  CAI'TIVKS 

It  read  ai  foUowa : 
Dear  Miss  Cardinal  "  Brtahsto.v  SqiMK. 

the  year  in  London"  Wou'id  you'co  'T'h  ""'  ""'  "','  "'"''  "' 
Square?    1  am  nenrlv  olwav.  ».  K  "^  ^  ""  "'  Bfyanstou 

would  you  ^rZ:ttr^:^'^z:;^  '^"■'-- « '-  -  f- 

It  wiU  be  ao  nice  to  see  you  again. 

Youts  sincerely, 

Kathibiiie  Mark. 

™;S'^r  ^^-  IZJTZ"^  ^»'*  --  »  we"  this 

How  s:;i;g:,^ter'dt:Lrab:„'.v ''^^  "i""""  ""^  ^-f-™- 

tionship  now  foeverronr  What  dM"hm»'  "'L^t!^  *«■'  """" 
wereanerv?    "  T  n.,„J,f  .    u  r,""  """ef  whether  any  oiip 

ab,  .t  a'^rLight  ago  0  a'ad:  It '°"' """"'  ^'"'''^"•-  '  -°'" 
She  was  a  Mifs  Tr^ncharf  then  ^K  '.""f  '"  "^  "'  °*  home, 
any  help  I  was  to  wrte^o  her'  So  t"*'"^  """'^  ""  ^  ^'"""^ 
whether  she  can  find  me  any  work  to  do""' 7"."'".""'  "'^  ''" 
to  go  and  see  her."  °  '^°'  """^  *''«  *"»'  asl'>'d  me 

your?unt'lrJ1,r""'  '='"'"'^"'-    "«"t  ^™  —''  «o  a-ay  while 

'^/want^  tf  be  1^^  .^^dT  "■"^-  o"-'  '-«'• 
Elizabeth's  eyes.    ■'ItTs„"t  fa  ;  tW  T    v"*^'fv"'''"«  '"  ^^  A™' 

"You're   no   burden    dear  •      A      /^l-'''  '"'  »  '""■''™  'o  y"""' 
round  the  room.'"t^t°;;  deplr  of ';ru'''^'''  looked   uneasily 

^^  Depends  on  me  for  what  i " 

"  For  everything." 

"Then  slie  oughtn't  to,  Aunt  Elizaheth    T',«      -i  •. 
agam.    I'm  not  fit  for  anv  one  f „  ^         j  t?"^  "  °«'''"  «"d 

careless  and  untidy  You  know  I  aT  a"".'  t  "  '"i*"'"'  ""'' 
every  one  here.  I'm  ve^  g^teful  toTunt  a"''  ^  ^  '",T^""*  ^'<"" 
enough  for  her  to  depend  on  "  ^^"    "'  ^  ^  ""'  ^""^ 

Aunt  Elizabeth  blinked  nervously. 

"I'm  noT'allZ'h^  JZ  "T'm''  *'!''^  -"""^  ""  ^  ^-" 

She  has,    answered  Maggie,  knowing  that  she  was 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD 


187 


bocnming  excited  and  cross.  "  I  don't  belong  to  auj  on«  except 
myself."  "  And  Martin "  her  soul  wliisixred.  Then  she  added, 
suildenly  mored  by  remorso  as  she  looked  at  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
iiicvk  and  tremblinR  face,  "  You're  so  goml  to  me.  both  of  you, 
an.i  I'm  so  bad.    I'll  givo  you  anything  but  my  f m  dom." 

■  Vou  talk  so  strangely,  dear."  said  Aunt  Elizabeth.  •'  But  there 
arc  si   many  things  I  don't  understand." 

llapgie  took  the  letter  up  to  her  bedroom  and  there  read  it  a 
number  of  times.  It  all  seemed  wonderful  to  her,  the  stamped 
I'lue  address,  the  rich  white  square  notepaper,  and  above  all  the 
beautiful  handwriting.  She  thought  of  her  own  childish  scrawl 
and  blushed,  she  even  sat  down,  there  and  then,  at  her  dressing- 
table  and,  with  a  pencil,  began  to  imitate  some  of  the  letters. 

On  Friday  1  To-day  was  Tuesday,  Bryanston  Square.  Wher- 
ever was  Bryanston  Square,  and  how  would  she  find  it!  She 
determined  to  ask  Caroline  Smith. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait  for  her  opportunity.  On  Wednesday 
evening  about  half-past  five  Miss  Smith  poked  her  head  into  the 
Cardinal  drawing-room  to  discover  JInggie  sitting  with  her  hands 
on  her  lap  looking  down  on  to  the  street. 

"Are  your  aunts  anywhere?"  asked  Caroline. 

"  No,"  said  Maggie.  "  Aunt  Anne's  in  bed  and  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
at  -Mif-M  Pyneheon's." 

'•  That's  right,"  said  Caroline,  "  because  I  haren't  seen  you, 
darling,  for  ages." 

"  The  day  before  yesterday,"  said  Maggie. 

"  You're  a  literal  pet,"  said  Caroline  kissing  her.  "  I  always 
exaggerate,  of  course,  and  it's  so  sweet  of  you  to  tell  me  about  it." 

She  rushed  off  to  the  fire  and  spread  out  her  blue  skirt  and 
dangled  her  feet. 

"  Isn't  it  cold  and  dark  ?  You  funny  dear,  not  to  have  the  blinds 
down  and  to  sit  staring  into  the  beastly  street  like  that.  ,  .  . 
I  believe  you're  in  love." 

Maggie  came  to  herself  with  a  start,  got  up  and  slowly  went  over 
to  the  fire. 

"Caroline,  where's  Bryanston  Square?" 

"Oh.  you  pet,  don't  you  know  where  Bryanston  Square  is!" 
cried  Caroline  suddenly  fixing  her  bright  eyes  upon  Maggie  with 
burning  curiosity. 

"  If  I  did  I  wouldn't  ask,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Quite  right— neither  you  would.    Well,  it's  near  Marble  Arch." 

"  But  I  don't  know  where  the  Marble  Arch  is." 

"  Lord  I "    cried    Caroline.     "  And    she's    been    in    London   for 


1«8 


THE  CAPTIVES 


How  .,u„id  of  herl    Sho  JllV     '"r    "P""'""'  «'.u.r,..    • 
^j^  «i  ncri     hUo  might  liuv,,    hoiiKht  „f  that  for  Iht- 

And  in  it  oih'ii  nl  sixV 
;;Of  oou«c.    You  can't  ,hut  Hyde  P.A." 

J:'ZZT'  '"  "■°"*'"''     ^'"""'"o  '""^•>'<"'  «"  with  in. 
at  w!""  ''"  '■""  """'  ''"•'  "  ^"^-  y-  darling?"  ,;.o  „»k.. 

And  rm  terribb  4h,encd'°  "  ""  *"'  '"""  "'  "'^  ''''•■ 

.^^Howcxcitin,.-"  «aid  Caroline  Capping  her  hand.     •■  v;,,„V 

li»'^  in'oieferhi""she'g„i:".!  ,^T  ^""'■''"•^-     «''«  "-'  «° 

"Worl<!"  cried  Caroirn»"*A      *    '  """  '™"-'  ""''''  «<>  <l""' 
aunt,  then?"  °''"''    ^''■"  y""  «°"'e  ««  »t"y  wi.l.  vour 

later  tronble.  She  w"h In  e^u  'n  T  """1  ■""■  '"'™  ^''»'"'  "'"'•'> 
of^CaroIine  only  aVI'poTS  agent'  "™  ""'"'  """^  *^'  """'""'^ 
_^__^  Caroline."  she  asked,  "wonld  you  take  a  note  fcr  n.e  to  son.e 

;Slr^d^.^t  J  Who  i.  it.. 

then  that  she  had  done  sompH„n„  f  r  ?'"°*','  ^  *''"'  suspected 
anything  to  recall  her  LXb'uTl'^llJr'  "°"''  ""'"V"''" 
to  make  it  the  more  suspicious  ""  "'™'"J  ""'y 


THE  OirTSIDE  WORIjD 


189 


"W»n,  I'll  (five  it  you  More  you  no,"  then  tha  went  on  u 
cinually  an  h\k  pould.    "  Wlnt'n  been  happening  lately  f" 

"Of  courn.  yiiH  know  all  almiit  the  c»citpment,"  naid  Caroline 
uttinR  back  in  the  faded  arm-'mir  with  her  blue  draa*  apread 
all  nbout  her  like  n  cloud. 

"What  c»,ltfrncMt»"  iiaid  MuRffie,  pullinR  herself  up,  with  « 
•Icupcrato  strucKJc,  from  her  own  prirate  advcntun  . 

"What I  you  don't  know!"  Caroline  citclainiod  in  an  awed 
whijipcr, 

"Know  what?"  Maggie  a»kcd,  rather  crossly,  rcpentinf  more 
anil  more  of  asking  Caroline  to  carry  her  note, 

"Why.  where  Jo  you  liret    .    .    ."    All  about  Mr.  Warlock  and 
his  visions  I " 
"  I've  heard  nothing  at  all."  aa'  I  Maggie. 
Thin  was  unexpcetcl  joy  to  Caroline,  who  had  nerer  imagined 
that  there  would  be  any  one  m  mar  the  Inner  Saints  aa  Mag|ie 
who  yet  knew  nothing  about  these  recent  events. 
"Do  you  really  know  nothing  about  it?" 
"  Nothing,"  Bttid  Maggie. 

•  Aren't  you  wonderfuH  "  said  Caroline.    "  What  happened  was 

this.     About  three  weeks  ago  ifr.  Warlock  had  a  vision  in  the 

middle  of  the  night.    He  saw  Gml  at  about  three  in  tho  morning." 

"  How  did  he  see  God  i "  asked  Moggie,  awed  in  spite  of  beraelf. 

Caroline's  voice  dropped  to  a  mysterious  whisper.     "  He  just 

woke  up  and  there  God  was  at  the  end  of  the  bed.    Of  course  he's 

not  spoken  to  me  about  it,  but  apparently  there  was  a  blaze  o* 

light  and  Something  in  tho  middle.    And  then  a  voice  spoke  and 

told  Mr.  Warlock  that  on  the  last  night  of  this  year  everythinc 

would  be  fulfilled." 

"What  did  He  mean?"  asked  Maggie. 

"  Different  people  think  He  meant  different  things,"  said  Caro- 
line.   "  Of  course  there's  most  fearful  excitement  about  it.    Mr. 
Warlock's  had  two  since." 
"  Two  what ! "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Two  visions.  Just  like  the  first.  The  blazirg  light  and  the 
Voice^  and  telling  him  that  the  last  night  of  the  year's  to  be  the 
time."  Caroline  then  began  to  be  carried  away  by  her  excitement. 
She  talked  faster  and  faster.  "  Oh !  You  don't  know  what  a  Itate 
every  one's  in!  It's  causing  all  sorts  of  divisiins.  First  there 
are  all  his  own  real  believers.  Miss  Pyneheon,  y^^r  aunts,  and  the 
others.  My  father's  one.  They  all  believe  every  word  he  says. 
They're  all  quite  certain  that  the  Isst  day  of  this  year  is  to  bo 
the  time  of  the  Second  Coming.    They  won't  any  of  them,  look  a 


190 


THE  CAI'TIVES 


own  hami,.    They're  ,M  of  thim   ^         '""  f"  '""*'  "  ""  "'  '  •-• 
»1«.  rely.    I,Z.n'    l.t,  l^""  ""'y"*'-"  '"  "■-'■••  th.-.. 

lieve  .11  ,lut  Mr.  \vJ^"Z"L^nt  "  *t°  P""""'  '"  >"  " 
•  word  of  it.  a„H  they  hoDe  ,h 't  ,h-  r"*'  "■*'  '*''"'»  '""•■"■ 
know  thrre  won't  be  anyTsrc  °V  f  *■'"  """'"  *'''  '"'"•  Th.v 
ind  then  they  think  he  Jill^  2  •  uT'""  ""  ^'^^  ^e.r',  Kve 
"<1  of  him.    So  tiey-™  e^  our«fn"f •''  -"{'';<'»'»  bo  .bl„  ,„  /,, 

"W.II    I    ,""•  ""reic  suddenly. 

nioke:!l'lLtnf„rifVhSr,tI„''''''/x?''"'T-     "O"''  i'  -'"- 
plan,  made,  on ly  „ow    L'ro  „"",  "        I""       '"  ''"•'  °"  ""^'^ 
to  marry  Amy  Warh^k  «S^I  U^n       "*  ^""!"  "''""'•"n  "'"" 
"  I.  Mr.  nur.to    going  „"''a'r,^T  Tr?'/"  }°  """^  *""' 
"  So  they  ,.y,"  .aid  cfrol  „.    ^  •       '  ^1"^^°^^ '     '"*<1  ""Rff"  • 
"Well,  anywa/  Mi'    Avte™;,  'b    "•"  ""       '*  ""'"■''  "'"""''*• 
back  her  L'stl^M^;    'm  terr  fiTV ."'  ""  '"^i "'"•'••    ' '' 
frankly.     She'd  wring  any  on?,  nenlf^     .  ^'  °'"^"'  ^  "^"  y- 
would!    .    .    .    Then  therLfuL.,"  """*"«■     Oh  ye»,  ,ho 
lieve  in   Mr.   War  ^J'.  w,""      at'^  n''  '''!,"-''°  ""P''  'l"''''  ''  " 
People  like  Mi,s  Smythe  and  Mr.    R  n  '."''  '"!'.'''"«''   "'   '""'• 
leaving  the  chapel.    Mr   Warl«k  won-    rT'    ^  '"'  "'  "'^"'  """ 
8:etting  .tranger  and  .tran^r   IT^-    1'"™.'°  '"''''"''j'-     "' -< 

};e  n,igh.  die  fny  day  i/trd'a  .hoek'ThrLV"  •'""'  ''"'  ^"^ 
ling  with  Martin."  "^^  ''®*  «'''ay»  quorrrl- 

•^M.r.r.'"''?*"^,'*''^'*''-    She  looked  at  Maggie 
Mart,n  ,  a  terr.ble  trial  ,o  hi.  father."  ZJ^"' 


'  .he  .aid. 


'  nr    .-I '  ""ppea.    ene  looke 

Martm',  a  terrible  trial  to  hi.  father, 
■But  Maggie  was  secure  now. 

do  yo'ulillefe!  ctoline'' ""^""^-    '"'^'^  ""'  "^-^-^  •'-17.  "  What 

"What  do  I  believe?"       * 

'■Yes,  about  Mr.  Warloek'.  visions." 
Uli,  of  course,  it's  only  beeruse  ha',  ill  .„J  ^      . 

w,thout  getting  off  his  kn«s,  a^d^'T't  e'^l  ifoZXr^l'^Z 


TIIK  OL'TSIDK  WORLD 


191 


thinCH,     And  .'rl  I  doii'i  kiinw,    Thrn>  may  be  loinelhinic  in  it. 

Tf  1  were  on  niy  k? •*  for  wnkn   IM  nrvi-r  mi'  niiytliinK'     bnt 

I'll   1)0   trrribly  xirry   fur    Mr.   Warluik    If   the  tiniu  comiM   ami 
nutliiiiK  tiiip|i«'rH.     Ilf'lt  jti^l  liuvc  t'l  go.'' 

Thr.v  Mt  u  liiili'  hnp'  r  t"ifi  tlur  uiul  llun  Ciiroliiic  »ji(l:    "  Wi'll, 

ilurlintr,  I  uiii"t  1 It    \Vli(-ii''s  ilml  milff"    Slio  hr^iuiiid,  lixikiiiK 

iit  Miii.'){ii'  witli  II  wiikii!  cliuiri  ill  hiT  pull-  liliii'  ryi'-.    "  Vmi  know. 
.Mnimii'.  I  '  .iii'l  111  i!si'  uii  n  y  niiml.     I'vii  haJ  un  olIiT  of  nurriuite." 

*■  I'm  Ml  (.'liii,  Ciiroliiir."  viiiii  .Mii^ffio. 

"  Vi'i.  liut  1  don't  know  what  to  ilo.  Ii'h  a  mtn— .Mr.  I'urjie. 
Iliri  futiifr'n  cvi-r  fo  rich  ami  ttn-y'lr  tfot  u  liig  plucu  down  ut  Ske-it- 
ton." 

"  Whcru's  that  >.  "  asked  MoKxii'. 

"Oh,  ilon't  ,Miu  know!  Skiatun- 'n-So«.  It'a  a  sca^'le  rcMrt. 
I've  known  Williiiiii  for  ii  loiiif  time.  Ills  father  known  fa. her. 
lie  ennic  to  tra  hist  week,  and  propobeil.  lle'ii  rathe  aiee  although 
he's  »o  silent." 

"  Why  ilon't  you  marry  him  then  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Well.  I  know  Martin  Warlock's  goioff  to  a^k  Mie.  It'a  been 
getting  eloNcr  and  closer.  I  expect  ne  will  this  wci-k.  Of  course, 
he  isn't  so  safe  as  William,  but  he's  much  niore  cxcitint?.  And  he's 
got  quite  a  lot  of  money  of  his  own." 

Strange,  tho  sure,  confident,  happy  security  that  Maggie  f( 
in  her  heart  at  this  announcement. 

"  I  should  wait  for  Martin  Warlock,"  she  said.  "  He'd  be  rather 
fun  to  marry." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  answered  Caro'»ne.  "Do  you  know,  I 
believe  I  will.  You're  always  right,  you  darluig,  .  .  ,  Only 
suppose  I  should  miss  them  both.  William  won't  wait  for  ever! 
Got  that  note,  dear?" 

Maggie  was  defiant.  She  would  just  show  the  creature  that  she 
wasn't  afraid  of  her.  She'd  give  her  the  note  and  she  might 
imagine  what  she  pleased. 

She  got  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper  and  wrote  hurriedly: 

The  week  is  up  on  Friday.  Will  you  meet  me  that  evening  at 
a  quarter  past  six  under  tho  Marble  Arch? 

Maggie. 


The  boldness,  tho  excitement  of  this  inflamed  her.  It  was  so 
like  her  to  challenge  any  action  once  she  was  in  it  by  taking  it  to 
Its  furthest  limit.  She  put  it  in  an  envelope  and  wrote  Martin's 
mame  with  a  flourish. 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I  ': 


192 

started  up  with  dismay  and  W^n  to  tZj""  ''"""■  '"■    "»««;« 
brushed  them  aside  *  stammer  excuses.    Miss  Avies 

ma7lftt"er™"""'"  ^"^  '"'■     " ^-'"  do  as  well-.,en,  ;, 

atXTbuTr  ^irttTrit  ^rThrth"^  r-  -» "- 

together.  Miss  Avies  wasTike  a  h  n  rod  nfV  '?  ^'"'  ^'"^  "'""^ 
quirering  and  waiting  to  strike      Her  f.  f  "f  °'-  "'^'^  ""^ 

not  with  outraged  virtue  or  ei«h?  t  '°"«/«"ow  face  was  stiff, 
but  simply  with  the  accumuatidZ*  Tt-'  °',''"™i''K  scorn, 
nation.  She  was  the  Te~bo,  JT^  "'"-"  ^'"^  '^"''™'" 
cold,  relentless.  Her  haTwiriet  hi,  '^'^""^'r^  ^^S^'  '"human, 
she  had  thick  black  eyeLws  ike  !fc  ""'' «'""""''  ^'^'  ''««'•  """> 
of  parchment.  '  Her  eyesTe J ta/  ir'^f  "''"'''''  *■"  ^''"'''^'''J 
8or.e  false  teeth  that  someThT-s  rfink^l  ■  ^^  '''"^-  '""^  '^'  ""ad 

thotirkinTabr\h\°:::L%ithe?s^ir"»  ""^  -<-» 

not  wear  glasses.     Could  T  hf    I  "*'"*"''y-     (She  would 

hostile,  nor  sco^ful.  nor  even  narnn-"  """"^'^  »'"'  ""'  ««* 
been  struck  there,  dead  at  her  ^^tf*  'u  '  ■>"'  '""^  ""S^i" 
step  to  help  her.  Her  voicl  was  udvtitr""  T-  '"'"'^  »»^^J  » 
it  needed  oil.  Maggie  ass^  l!ftj!V  "1'^'' '"  '*■  «'  though 
told  that  she  did  nft  believe  Lm,w    '    ■'         ""'  "'^  '"  ^^ 

She  came  across  and  shoU  Cg  e'S' Hr'^T- 
and  s„ff  and  a  little  damp  like  tfat  of  a  tt^tone""      ""  ""''^ 
a  wht:?  'Z  footd  ari?"^  r-  "•'""-  ta'k  to  you  for 

"  Why  doni;Vo;tlL"*outor/;'hisV?'°'"^"*-    ^'^'^  ^  ^^ 
gie  iu'm'^A  ""'  "  "'"'P'  ""'  «-«  ™"J'  »«  -expected  that  Mag- 
■'Why  don't  7f"  she  repeated. 

-W^'Sd^J."""-"'"—"™""*.!.!!."/.!- 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD 


193 


"Well  then,  clear  out." 
J'^oggie.  colouring  a  little,  said : 

"ily  aunts  have  beeu  very  good  to  me.  I  oughtn't  to  learo 
them." 

"  Fiddlesticks,"  said  Hiss  Avies.  "  Your  life's  your  own,  not 
your  aunts'." 

She  sat  down  and  stayed  bolt  upright  and  motionless  near  the 
fire;  she  flung  a  thin  dark  shadow  like  a  stain  on  the  wnll. 

There  was  a  long  pause  between  them.  After  that  abrupt  opcn- 
mg  there  seemed  to-be  nothing  to  say.  Maggie's  thoughts  also 
were  elsewhere.  She  was  wishing  now  passionately  that  she  had 
not  given  that  note  to  Caroline. 

Suddenly  Miss  Aries  said,  "  What  do  you  do  with  yourself  all 
day?" 

Maggie  laughed.  "Try  and  make  myself  less  careless.  Miss 
Avies." 

Miss  Avies  replied,  "You'll  never  make  yourself  less  careless. 
We  are  as  we  are." 

"  But  don't  you  think,"  said  Maggie,  "  that  one  can  cure  one's 
faults?" 

"  One  gets  rid  of  one  only  to  make  room  for  another.  .  .  . 
But  that  di^'sn't  matter.  ,  The  point  is  that  one  should  have  an 
ambition.     What's  your  ambition,  child?" 

Maggie  didn't  answer.  Her  ambition  was  Martin,  but  she 
couldn't  tell  Miss  Avies  so. 

At  last,  after  a  long  pause,  as  Miss  Avies  still  seemed  to  be 
waiting,  she  answered: 
"  I  suppose  that  I  want  to  earn  my  living — to  be  independent." 
"Well,  leave  this  place  then,"  said  Miss  Avies.  "There's  no 
independence  here."  Then  added,  as  though  to  herself.  "  They 
think  they're  looking  for  the  face  of  God.  .  .  .  It's  only  for 
themselves  and  their  vanity  they're  looking." 

Maggie  said,  to  break  another  of  the  long  pauses  that  seemed  to 
be  always  forming  between  them: 
"  I  think  every  one  ought  to  earn  their  own  living,  don't  you  ? " 
Miss   Avies  shook   her  head.      "  You're   very   young — terribly 
young.    I've  got  no  advice  to  give  you  except  to  lead  a  healthy  life 
somewhere  away  from  these  surroundings.     We're  an  unnatural 
lot  here  and  you're  a  healthy  young  creature.    .   .   .   Have  you  got 
a  lover?" 
Maggie  smiled.    "I've  got  a  friend,"  she  said. 
Miss  Avies  sighed.     "That's  more  than  I've  got,"  she  said. 
"  Not  that  I've  time  for  one,"  she  added.    She  got  up.    "  I  won't 


tl] 


THE  CAPTIVES 


i    ,* 


ri 


194 

She  was  not  8u.^That  ,he  C  M^r  1°  ^^*«'^^«'"«'«d  or  no. 
done  anything  with  the  note  t„™  ^  u  ^"'''""e  might  have 
it  altojther^  WeH.  that  wis  a  rilThatT'  ''■  '"'  '*'  ''"^''"«" 
he  did  not  appear  ;he  would  wa  a  little  whT  '"TJ"^'-  " 
away.  They  must  soon  meet  Tn  any  cae  Th/I  ^  S  "r" 
Uvea  before  them.  ^         "     ^"^y  ''*<'  »"  their 

thalThe  H«M  s^LTto'^strr  ^^v.  P'^"  "^  -^  -  thin 
a  stained  wind^Hatt^ht":.:^""'^'  ""  "^'"^  ''"  "«'"'  «* 

ou^hr'sitvX'ai^  atKintt'-M  '"''^ ".?"  -''• 

warm  maternal  love     Ba?her  shrll  fv        ?^k**'u  ™'^'^^°'y  **!' 

we2iru:Lr:';KouH'''--  "°<"'''  •»  -*  '«*«  ^-^a- 

of^r^^Supporher"  ^11^1?'  't"!!*'  '•■-  '"^  *'-«'" 
years!        ™  """*   ''"^   "<"   ««'   "^tter   for   years    and 

ch^g^'LteTr  'ondiS  'tTm""  '""'''^-  '''''  -  "PPa-t 
final  thing     She  eouIHw  7°  ^"f*"'  »  »"■»'»«  ''««  an  utterly 

She  treXd  now  wten  1  rhou.It''V°t7".''l°''^  °"^'»  -""J 
'Iter  Zr'  ^^'?  -"'  '■e'  ""e  :S?.  ^"^    '"> 

fat  red-faced  felloJ-^Uh':  pt^^a^  .i^oth  e^rfa  "^^^ 


III 

Hi 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD 


195 


vague  eye,  as  though  be  always  saw  further  than  he  intended, 
waited  patiently  for  her  to  speak. 

Boldly,  as  though  she  had  done  such  things  all  her  life,  she 
said,  "Fourteen  Bryanston  Square."  Then  she  slipped  in  and 
was  hidden  from  the  gay  world.  She  sat  there,  her  hands  on  her 
lap  staring  at  the  three  crimson  rolls  in  the  neck  of  her  driver. 
She  was  thinking  of  nothing,  nothing  at  all.  Did  she  struggle  to 
think t  Only  words  would  come,  "Martin."  or  "Bryanston 
Square,"  or  "  cab,"  again  and  again,  words  that  did  not  mean 
anything  but  physical  sensations.  "  Martin  "  hot  fire  at  the  throat, 
"  Bryanston  Square  "  an  iron  rod  down  the  spine,  and  "  cab  "  dust 
and  ashes  in  the  eyes. 

She  tried  to  look  at  herself  in  the  little  mirror  opposite  her, 
but  she  could  only  catch  the  comer  of  her  cheek  and  half  her  hat. 
But  she  minded  less  about  her  appearance  now.  If  Martin  could 
love  her  it  did  not  matter  what  others  thought — nevertheless  she 
pulled  her  hat  about  a  little  and  patted  her  dress.  The  cab  stopped 
and  she  felt  desperately  lonely.  Did  any  one  care  about  her  any- 
where! No,  no  one.  She  could  have  cried  with  pity  at  the 
thought  of  her  own  loneliness. 

"  One  and  sixpence.  Miss,"  said  the  cabman  in  so  husky  a  voice. 

She  gave  it  to  him. 

"What's  this!"  he  asked,  looking  at  it. 

"  One  and  sixpence,"  she  answered  timidly,  wondering  at  his 
sarcastic  eye. 

"  Oh  well,  o'  course,"  he  said,  looking  her  all  over. 

She  knew  instinctively  that  he  demanded  more.  She  found 
another  sixpence.    "  Is  that  enough  ? "  she  asked. 

He  seemed  ashamed. 

"  If  I  'adn't  a  wife  sick "  he  began. 

She  ran  up  the  high  stone  steps  and  rang  a  hell.  The  episode 
with  the  driver  had  disturbed  her  terribly.  It  had  shown  in  what 
a  foreign  world  she  was.  All  her  self-confidence  was  gone.  She 
had  to  take  a  pull  at  herself  and  say :  "  Why,  Maggie,  you  might 
be  ringing  the  dentist's  bell  at  this  moment." 

That  helped  her,  and  then  the  thought  of  Martin.  She  saw  his 
boyish  smile  and  felt  the  warm  touch  of  his  rough  hand.  When 
the  maid  was  there  instead  of  the  green  door,  she  almost  said: 
"Is  Martin  in!" 

But  she  behaved  very  well. 

"Mrs.  Mark!"  she  said  in  precisely  the  voice  required. 

The  maid  smiled  and  stood  aside.  And  then  into  what  a  world 
ahe  entered!    A  world  of  comfort  and  re-assurance,  of  homeliness 


Ml 


196 


THE  CAPTIVES 


i  i  •  :'tl 


cWsanthemum,  ^T^  ^""^  'he  ceiling     a  1^'' /  '"'"'  "' 

- -r,iir  kH« --^^^  t.  :ir: 

^'^-r-e  wo„''ldVruttL%e''''^''  ^'  ^ir  t"T 
'™.  nis  liair  snowv  mhu     i      ,    ™  ™  not  so  brooH     u-  ^  ' 

„  He  sailed  atTa;;-^',''^!';  *-f  -*  'oolc'cSd'''    ""'^  '"•=«  "" 
Then  there  was  MrMal    ^*^  ''*  """^  k"<"^  her  all  h-    iv 
™>nded  Maggie  of  Ma«,„   'a,7^  Ti  ''<x=ky  and  thick    t"/^^' 
he  looked  mii»k  -i      ""'".  although  his  f«,.o  ~       '".'ct.  and  re- 
«  boy  at  air'Tif'''^'.'""'  "»«  »«ch  a  bo.    h?'  ""'*«  different. 

A",     ndeed  there  was  lot .    t?*""""""  »'"'«  here""  ^j.^  a^;  ^ 
especiai  rpnsnn  <■    \  .       "'•    I'  was  as  tl,n„»i,  .1      ,        decided. 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD  lyi 

would  fall  beneath  one's  feet,  that  the  flojr  would  sink.  No  sudJeii 
catching  of  the  breath  at  the  opening  of  a  door,  no  hesitation  about, 
climbing  the  stairs,  no  surveillance  by  the  watchins  Thomas,  nn 
distant  clanging  of  the  Chapel  bell.  How  strange  thev  all  se<n,«l, 
looking  back  from  this  safe  harbour.  The  aunts,  the  Warlm-k., 
Thurston.  Mr.  Crashaw,  Caroline-all  of  them.  There  the  imagi- 
nation set  fire  to  every  twig— here  the  imagination  was  not  necdc.' 
because  everything  occurred  before  your  eyes. 

She  did  not  figure  it  all  out  in  so  many  words  at  once,  but  tlw 
contrast  of  the  two  worlds  was  there  nevertheless.  Why  had  slu- 
been  so  anxious,  so  nervous,  so  distressed?  There  was  no  n.,.| 
Had  she  not  known  that  this  other  world  existed!  Perhaps  i-i.e 
had  not.     She  must  never  again  forget  it.    .    .    . 

Katherine  Mark  was  so  kind  and  friendly,  her  voice  so  soft  ai.d 

her  interest  so  eager,  that  Maggie  felt  that  she  could  tell  her  ai;v- 

thing.    But  their  talk  was  not  to  come  just  yet— first  there  miiU 

be  general  conversation. 

The  clergyman  with  the  white  hair  tnd  the  rosy  face  laughed  a 

great  deal  in  a  schoolboy  kind  of  way,  and  every  time  that  he 

laughed  his  sister,  who  was  like  a  pippin  apple  with  her  sunburnt 

cheeks,  looked  at  him  with  protecting  eyes. 
"  She  looks  after  him  in  everything/'  said  Maggie  to  herself 

He  was  called  Paul  by  them  all. 
"  He's  my  cousin,  you  know.  Miss  Cardinal,"  said  Mrs.  Mark 

'  And  yet  I  scarcely  ever  see  him.    Isn't  it  a  shame?    Grace  makes 

everything  so  comfortable  for  him.    ..." 
Grace  smiled,  well  pleased. 
"It's  Paul's  devotion  to  his  parish    .    .   ."  she  said  in  calm. 

happy,  self-assured  voice,  as  though  she'd  never  had  a  surprise 

ID  her  life. 

"I'm  sure  it  isn't  either  of  those  things,"  thought  iraggio  to 

herself.    "  He's  lazy." 

Lazy  but  nice.     She  had  never  seen  a  clergyman  so  healthy,  so 

tMpw,  so  clean  and  so  kind.    She  smiled  across  the  table  at  him. 
"  Do  yi  1  know  Skeaton  ? "  he  asked  her. 

_  SkeatonI    Where  had  she  heard  of  the  place?    Why,  of  course, 

it  was  Caroline! 
"  Only  yesterday  I  heard  of  it  for  the  first  time,"  she  said.    "  A 

friend  of  mine  knows  some  one  there." 
"Beastly  place,"  said  Mr.  Mark.     "Sand  always  blowing  into 

your  eyes." 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trenchard  got  up  to  go. 
He  stood  a  moment  holding  Maggie's  hand.    "  If  ever  you  come 


1^ 

I' . 


198 


THE  CAPTIVES 


:| 


Be  liked  her  .„d  wouldTot  f^^t  h:,''*"  '  '"''''••    ^he  feJt  .h.t 
fnc^r  '^'"''•"  •""  «'"  T«nch.,d.  ™the,  .h.,p„  jf.^, 

PerffetUrdl^n^e-riC  ""^  «-''«'^-  with  pHde;  «I  ,..« 

Can  you  shorthand  .ndtm«» 
"Mu'st\rh;  ■'".''^  ^^"'^'^  "'»"  111  lean.." 
-happ^^Xre^rrr  "'  '~'""  ""'«*  ^«*'-«-e.    "Are  you 
■Maggie  paused. 

^  ''No'^'nlle-r^X^?  %°"^T^"  «"'<'  ^o"'"- 
happy  at  home,  but  I  thfnfc  tb  Jl  ™  *  '^'  ***<=''y-  I'm  not 
«ood.  But  I  want  to  be  f^  lllZl  ^'"'"-  ^^^  aunts  are  very 
and  they  want  me  to  be'ie™ 'in^hi'  ,-'^  '^^'^°"'  "•'e'e  I  am. 
reh-gious  at  all.  T^n  I  donVwanVtor":,  ^'"  "^'-d  I'™  not 
I'm  very  ignorant.    I  know  n„t  J        I    ^  dependent  on  people 

HistmKdla^^^^^^  «^-Ht  s^denly  of  Martin, 

wanted  her  life  to  be  unt  fhe/'rehtrnl"''!-''''  '"^  ^^"  '^' 
E^rything  depended  on  that  ^"^  ^^"^  settled? 

shJtidT,aft.'^."hitVcr"''t'"^''™'^  "•"•  "«  I  can  fee," 
•  ■  •  We  all  seem.  .^  Ohrhor"  "r^""^"  ^  '^"«  "o^^y. 
P'operly!     Tou  never  will  uLZ  ?■    "  ^'"'  ™derstand 

It.is  all  so  queer,  so  shu  up  Jwav  fror^""'"l.''''<'  °"  '>™»e. 
prisoner.    ...»  "P-  a'^ay  from  everything.    I'm  y^^  ^ 


I: 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD 


199 


And  that  ia  perhaps  what  she  was  like  to  Mn,  Uark,  sitting 
there  in  her  funny  ill-fitting  clothes,  her  anxious  old-fashioned  face 
as  of  a  child  aged  long  before  her  time.  Katherine  Mark,  who  had 
had,  in  her  life,  her  own  perplexities  and  sorrows,  felt  her  heart 
warm  to  this  strange  isolated  girl.  She  had  needed  in  her  own 
life  at  one  time  all  her  courage,  and  she  had  used  it;  she  had 
never  reg'ettcd  the  step  that  she  had  then  taken.  She  believed 
therefore  n  courage.  .  .  .  Courage  was  eloquent  in  every  move- 
ment of  It^flggie's    ^;uare  reliant  body. 

"  She  co'ild  be  braver  than  I  have  ever  been,"  she  thought. 

"  Miss  Ct>rdinal,"  she  said,  "  I  want  you  to  come  here  whenever 
you  can.  You  haven't  seen  our  boy,  Tim,  yet — one  and  a  half — 
and  there  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  show  you.  Will  you 
count  yourself  a  friend  of  the  house  ? " 

Maggie  blushed  and  twisted  her  hands  together. 

"  You're  veiy  good,"  she  said,  "  but  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  . 
perhaps  you  won't  like  mc,  or  what  I  do." 

"  I  do  like  you,"  said  Katherine.  "  And  if  I  like  any  one  I  don't 
care  what  they  do." 

"All  the  same,"  said  Maggie,  "I  don't  belong  ...  to  your 
world,  your  life.  I  should  shock  jou,  I  know.  You  might  be 
sorry  afterwards  that  you  knew  me.  Supposing  I  broke 
away.    ..." 

"  But  I  broke  away  myself,"  said  Katherine,  "  it  is  sometimes 
the  only  thing  to  do.  I  made  my  mother,  who  had  been  goodness 
itself  to  me,  desperately  unhappy." 

"Why  did  you  do  that!"  asked  Maggie. 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  marry  my  husband." 

"  Well,  I  love  a  man  too,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  you'll  be  happy  I  "  said  Katherine.  "  As  happy 
as  I  am." 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  shaking  her  head,  "  I  don't  expect  to  be 
happy." 

She  seemed  to  herself  as  she  said  that  to  be  hundreds  of  miles 
away  from  Katherine  Mark  and  her  easy  life,  the  purple  curtains 
and  her  amber  light. 

"Not  happy  but  satisfied,"  she  said. 

She  saw  that  it  was  five  minutes  past  six.  "I  must  go,"  she 
said. 

When  they  said  good-bye  Katherine  bent  forward  and  kissed  her. 

"  If  ever,  in  your  life,  I  can  help  in  any  way  at  all,"  she  said, 
"come  to  me." 

"I'll  do  that,"  promised  Maggie.     She  coloured,  and  then  her- 


200 


I 


\l'': 


\  k' 


:  I 


11 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I: 


<ho  purple  ,„rtai„,  iniide  .he  houi  h^d  b  "^'^  ""'"f  !?  ""»'«•' 
general  curtained  world.  There  waT  At.  .  "'"^'^  °*  '«"»  • 
trcen  ,vi,h  black  pointing  finger,     '5  he"  "  y'l"!.'^  """'  «"•"" 

here  a  shining  doorway!  Sdjt^U  Z  l!!'""^  "'"''<'«'  '"d 
d.sregarded  love  and  dea  h  and  «U  tj"  ^f  .'""o"  "'  "  """•'■^  "".t 
Maggie  confronted  a  pol'cma"  ""  "'"■*'  ^'•'*=»"«»- 

/•s^%VaUd!5^*r"h:''::rs:^;^:^^^^^^^^^ 

"you  can't  miss  it."  ""swered,  p.^in.ing  down  tius  street, 

the'^hick  Wd?or.he  iky^wlT.h''  "'''"'.  "'l'""!  »f  »■"  against 
fror.t  of  her,  like  a  pony    sudrm       T  ']  ''"  '"'"«  "'''■d  '" 
And  her  thoughts  mriU        ,^  released,  kicking  its  heels 
P«^le  like  mTSw  S',„"d"sint^-S^  ■ovely^ightiTes; 
themum,,  boot-poliah  and  caSsuglr!!^!      T!!^"'  '''"y"'"'- 
had  been-nice  clergyman,  fat  TlftX  iT?^  ''*''  '""'  '''"<'  «hey 
whjte  hair,  and  Aum  Anne  i^  bed  nn^t^K^"""*    "  'P"^  "*  hi. 
and  Mr.  Crashaw  smii.ng  lu  tfulty  at  Camr'  """'^  struggling 
black  streets,  strips  of  silk  and  th«i        Sm   '"'^-    •   •   ■    The  long 
ther.  was  .  catl"  Hi,\'r^s't  '  ATeVk^bl'l"""'-""  '  ™''' 
•    •   •    and  the  Chapel  bell  r!no.;n.      j  ii       '''"^''  against  black 
^Behind  all  this  ZtuinZ^      "^    «°"?''  ''^'^  "y"-    • 
Creeping  nearer  and  nearer  as  thru^rL""'*''!-  ^*"*'"-  "artia. 
was   t  that  she  was  crcepfng  nearer  and    "*"*  J"'' ""^hind  her.  or 
not  know,  but  her  heart  nT„,."^  "^"^  '"  him?    She  did 
»  though  giants  were  wranoi^'M?.''"?  ""  ""'^"^  'hat  U  w^^ 
cloths,  but  their  hands  wl^'^^old     No  'h'  "'"''  .""'"''  ''•  ho^ 
desperately,  madly  edited  '  '^^  ""'  ''™P'y  "cited. 

She  had  never  been  excit»/l  K«* , 

look,  the  hous^f:'o:tetCm\nraS;tt/=^  ''^-«-    ^ut 

smart  houses  with  their  fi^edoo,!,ij  .'■."'  ^'diculous  those 
No.  it  was  her  heart,  not  the  housTs  ^  """'^  ^'^P"  *»  '""hle! 
^Jo  I  look  ,„eerr    she  thought;  "wifl  people  be  looking  .t 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD 


201 


Woof!  Poofl  "Off  we  go!"  St.  Drcot's,  that  Kjuare  piece  of 
gra««  on  the  lawn  with  the  light  on  it,  her  clothet,  the  socka  that 
muit  bo  mended,  Caroline's  sillt  and  the  rustle  it  maile,  shops, 
housea,  rirers,  seas,  death— yea,  Aunt  Anne's  cancer  .  .  .  and 
then,  with  a  great  upward  surge  like  rising  from  the  depths  of  the 
sea  after  a  dire,  Martin !  Martin,  Martin  t  .  .  .  For  a  moment 
then  she  had  to  pause.  She  had  been  walking  too  fast.  Her  heart 
jumped,  then  ran  a  step  or  two,  then  fell  into  a  d' ad  pause.  .  .  . 
She  went  on.  seeing  now  nothing  out  two  lamps  that  watched  her 
like  the  eyes  of  a  giant. 

She  was  tliere!  This  was  a  Marble  Arch!  All  by  itself  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  She  crossed  to  it,  first  went  under  it,  then 
thought  that  he  would  not  see  her  there  so  came  out  and  atood, 
nervously  rubbing  her  gloved  hands  against  one  another  and 
turning  her  head,  like  a  bird,  swiftly  from  aide  to  side. 

She  didn't  like  standing  there.  It  seemed  to  make  her  so  promi- 
nent. Men  stared  at  her.  He  should  have  been  there  first.  He 
might  have  known.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  Caroline  never  gave  him 
the  letter.  At  that  thought  her  heart  really  did  stop.  She  was 
terrified  at  once  as  though  some  one  had  told  her  disastrous  news. 
She  would  not  wait  very  long;  then  she  would  go  hime.    .   .   . 

She  saw  him.  He  atood  only  a  little  away  froui  her  staring 
about  him,  looking  for  her.  She  felt  that  she  had  not  seen  him 
for  years;  she  drank  in  his  sturdiness,  his  boyish  face,  his  air  of 
caring  nothing  for  authority  She  had  not  seen  bis  dark  blue 
overcoat  before.  He  stood  directly  under  a  lamp,  swaying  evur  so 
little  on  his  heels,  his  favourite,  most  characteristic,  movement. 
He  stood  there  as  though  he  were  purposely  giving  her  a  portrait 
that  she  might  remember  for  the  rest  of  her  days.  She  was  too 
nervous  to  move  and  then  6he  wanted  that  wonderful  moment  to 
last,  that  moment  when  she  had  realised  that  he  had  come  to 
meet  her,  that  he  was  there,  amongst  all  those  crowds,  simply  for 
her.  that  he  was  looking  for  her  and  wanting  her,  that  he  would 
be  bitterly  disappointed  did  she  not  come.    ... 

She  saw  him  give  a  little  impatient  jerk  of  the  head,  the  same 
movement  that  she  had  seen  him  make  in  Chapel.  That  jerk 
set  her  in  motion  again,  and  she  was  suddenly  at  '.a  aide.  She 
touched  his  arm;  he  turned  and  his  eyes  lit  with  pleasure.  They 
smiled  at  one  another  and  then,  without  a  word,  moved  off  towards 
the  park.  He  took  her  arm  and  put  it  through  his.  She  felt 
the  warm  thick  stuff  of  the  blue  '!oat,  and  beneath  that  the 
steady  firm  beat  of  his  heart.  They  walked  closely  toiref-or,  his 
thigh  pressed  against  herg,  and  once  and  again  her  hair  brushed 


M2 


,  i  i 


THE  CAPTIVES 


m 


Wn.  i«  abe  like  that  1 " 
"Ye,,  ihe'i  like  that.    .   .    ." 
There  wai  another  pauae-  thev  »n.^<ij  j         .i 

right  toward,  the  trees  thar;e«bIackTuln.T  *^'  "''"'  *»  *^ 
purple  aky.  There  were  nr.Tani  .nH  "."^  7'"*'  '«"'""  ""e 
though  they  ploughed  thigh  wa^e'r  ll  .»«•  'O-id'y  dark  a, 
heat  and  persecuted  by  a  "trance  we.rfJ^*  /'"  »"«'«="«*')  wi'h 
''!?j4''««4t  wa.allth'.tX'coSrdl'rw'a'i"''''  ""  '"'"^"'^  '^ 
you  i^ul'dn't  ;ome''''""'"™"'^~""?^«'"Ky'"'-«f"id  that 

"eli'fTh'a'd':.'  rrd^'the'rotr;':""  rr™-^  r''*  «-»'-• 

to-night  .ome  way.    But  vou  wTif       •"  '^^''"""'ed  to  see  you 
laattime.    .   .   ."    "^'"' *"<"'•  "»KB'e.  it  had  better  be  for  the 

"ll°t'I.tt''d^l^\'''''t""*'  ""'»  "•«  fi"t  time." 

above  them,  and  in  front  of  ^Tm  tL  "^^  "*''"  «  '"<>  "^  "ack 
into  mist.  There  wa,  „o  „und  .»  """'  r*"'  '"'*  «  '^'^■^  •*<■«»• 
hum  of  a  top  that  dT^  to  a  wwlr  /J"^'"*  "••'"  ''''«  «1>- 
infuriated  gid  to  ao' Wity  agl^n^    """^  """  ""  "'"''«'  ^y  some 

ou^'Sftho^ugh"^  Zu'eUr  *'\'^'i!'-    «•"'  ^«"  ''-  ""n  move 

"  No."  he". aid  '■  un  nTeVMaltS   W^o ".''"';''  "^  ''""  ^'""'• 

"trangers.     We  can't  go  on    you  know    If   '  "*"'  !"'  '"  "^^  "^^ 

your  saying  we  can"  ^  '"'•  ""««'«•  «°d  it's  no  use 

betty:rethot;;t'":t^r^.»^^^^  "^-''  ---  "'- 

W.   so.  speaking  very^^iy  anVnySiTaVhtTrn^; 

ml'^."':  """y^u  s^aJd^tClffditVi"";''^*  'l™'"'^  •^^'-O  - 
was  willing  to  take  risks  that  we  wIS""*  ^'""  *•"'"«  """"i  «nd 
thought  all  about  it  and  1  know  tha?  ?>l°  Th  'T''"-  ^^"-  ^'^^ 
you  than  happy  with  any  one  dse  But  .h!  t  "^  "",'f  ""^  "'"' 
erable.  You  seem  to  thfnk  von  coul jll ™  ^  '''•''"''^'"  "^^  "i'' 
soon  as  you  like  Bnt  Vw  /  j  °  "'"''*'  "«  miserable  just  as 
be  miserrbi,  ncto,^:l*t*ak':'-t."  '^""-    ^  ^  -^o"''  -"'  " 


THE  OUTSIDE  WORLD 


203 

She  ptuMd    lie  morad  ■  little  clowr  and  luddenly  took  her 
hand. 
She  drew  it  awny  and  went  on; 

"  Don't  think  I'm  inexperienced  about  thia,  Martin.  You  ttj 
I  know  nothing  about  men.  Perhapa  I  don't.  But  I  know  mywl/. 
I  know  what  I  wont,  and  I  can  look  after  myaelf.  However  badly 
you  treated  me,  it  would  bo  you  that  I  was  with  all  tho 
time." 

"  No.  no,  Maggie,"  he  answprc  !,  s.^aking  rapidly  and  aa  though 
he  were  fiercely  protesling  an  <t  som"!  one.  "  It  ian't  that  at  all. 
You  nay  you  know  yourself— but  then  I  know  myielf.  It  isn't 
only  that  I'm  a  rotten  fellow.  It  is  that  I  teem  to  bring  a  curae 
on  every  one  I'm  fond  of.  I  love  my  father,  and  I've  come  back 
and  made  him  miserable.  It's  always  like  that.  And  if  I  made 
you  miserable  it  would  bo  the  worst  thing  I  ever  did.  .  .  I 
don't  even  know  whether  I  love  you.  If  I  do  it's  different  from  any 
love  I've  ever  ha-".  Other  women  I'd  be  mad  about.  I'd  go  for 
them  whatever  happened  and  get  them  somehow,  and  I  wouldn't 
>"are  a  bit  whether  they  were  happy  or  no.  But  I  feel  about  you 
a.most  as  though  you  were  a  man— not  sensually  at  all,  but  that 
sf  fe  steady  security  that  you  feel  for  a  man  sometimes.  .  .  . 
>ou  re  so  restful  to  be  with.  I  feel  now  aa  though  you  were  the 
one  person  in  the  world  who  could  turn  me  into  a  decent  human 
being.  I  feel  as  though  we  were  just  meant  to  move  along  to- 
other; but  then  some  other  woman  would  come  like  a  fire  and  off 
Idgo.  .  .  .  Then  I'd  hate  myself  worse  than  ever  and  be  really 
finished." 
Maggie  looked  at  him. 

"You  don't  love  me  then,  Martin?"  she  asked. 
"  Yes  I  do,"  he  answered  suddenly,  "  I  keep  telling  myself  that 
I  don  t,  but  I  know  that  I  do.  Only  it's  different.  It's  as  though 
I  were  loving  myself,  the  better  part  of  myself.  Not  something 
new  and  wildly  exciting,  but  something  old  that  I  had  known 
always  and  that  had  always  been  with  me.  If  I  went  away  now, 
Maggie,  I  know  I'd  come  bad:  one  day— perhaps  years  afterwaida 
—but  I  know  I  d  come  back.  It's  like  that  religious  part  of  me, 
like  my  legs  and  my  arms.  Oh!  it's  not  of  my  own  comfort 
Im  doubting,  but  it's  you!    ...    I  don't  want  to  hurt  you, 

Maggie  darling,  just  as  I've  hurt  every  one  I  loved " 

"  I'll  come  with  you,  Martin,"  said  Maggie,  "  as  long  as  you 
want  me,  and  if  you  don't  want  me,  later  you  will  again  and  111 
be  waiting  for  you." 
He  put  his  arm  round  her.    She  crept  up  dose  to  him,  nestled 


M 


•Mt 


II    If 


TlUi  lAI'TtVKS 


into  hi.  CO..  .a.1  put  her  h.nd  up  to  hi.  cheek,     IIo  «,nt  down 
Inn  hvad  and  they  kiiH-d. 
AfUT  that  there  could  b«  no  more  irgumcnt.     What  h>d  he 

E^  „T".'''^i"  "'""  "n  ''"'     "'"•■  'h.t  for™  .nd  power  h..l 
he  not  pUnned  to  pcr.u.d.  her  J    How  l«  would  tell  heV  that  h. 
did  not  love  her,  that  Iw  would  not  be  faithful  to  her,  tUt  he  w..uM 
trea    he,  cruelly.    Now  it  wa.  all  gone.    With  .  ge  tui^  of  uTn  o 
jronic  abandonment  he  flung  away  hi.  «:ruple,.    It  wralwayT* 
ifo  wa.  stronger  tl    u  he.    Jle  had  tried,  in  thi,  at  lea.  ,   r^have 
like  a  decent  man,       ut  life  did  not  want  him  to  be  dcc;nt 
And  how  he  ncv      ,  that  rc.t  that  .he  gave  him!     A,  he  fcli 

?^^    vnT.''*"""^  *■'?'•  '-'•'"l  """  ''i™  "i'h  'hat  utterly  laf 
and  eh,Hi.h  tru.t  that  had  allured  and  charmed  him  on  ,ho  ve  y 

would  not  think  of  the  future.    //,  would  not.    ...    He  wm  ip 

eKnd  thil  h"  "•  li.'^'''"'l'  VV"*!  ""'""'''  »'"'  <""''•  find  >>!- 
hhTand  .hiS  .  """V-,  ".'"!/*"  •■"  •"''  ™"fi<'«""  hand  find 
whX,  ,k'  ''''"«  •'«'.^?1"  i-'ide  it  like  a  flower,  he  wondered 
t  m.t  .  ;  !■?"  *":  '"'••'t  not  force  thing,  to  be  right  It  wa. 
Line  he  took  thing,  m  hand.  He  could.  He  muat.  . 
He  began  to  whisper  to  iier: 

t»,r.^Jk*'*  ''"""^-  ■  V.  ^'  ""y"''  •»  b'd.  ni  find  out  where 
And  well  go  away  aomowhere  where  I  can  work,  and  we  won' 
a  low  anybo.^  ,o  interfere.  After  all.  I'm  older  now.  The^! 
I  ve  been  in  before  , a  becauw  I  alwoy.  make  wrong  .hot..  .  _•' 
.J,  L'"/  ""T'^-  T^"'  ''*'"*'  "'■"'  heating  too  tumultuou.Iy 
ahe  could  not  She  wa.  mingled  with  him,  her  heart  hi.,  her  li™ 
~L  ev'  "^^  •'i'-  .■  •  •  ,.^'"'  '^'"^  °<"  l'*""'™  'hat  wird.  wouW 
«T.«!,rM  T^.*"  ''"  """"^  '"  *''™-  She  was  utterly  happ^- 
•o  utterly  that  .he  wa.,  a.  it  were,  numb  with  happineak 

iney  murmured  one  another',  name. 

"  Martin." 

"Maggie!    ..." 

-hiMJH'-'  '^"-"i''*-  '"^'y  knowing  what  they  did,  like  two 
duldren  in  a  dark  wood,  they  wandered  towards  home. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


MAQOIE  had  never  Rally  been  hippy  before.  She  h«d  of 
courw  not  known  thi>;  hvr  mlvcntum  in  introi|)t'ction  had 
btt-n  very  few,  besidcii  ahc  had  not  known  what  happinc^K  looke<l 
like;  her  father,  her  uncle,  and  her  aunta  were  not  exactly  happy 
people.  .  .  , 

Now  abe  flung  hertclf  without  thought  or  care  into  ■  flood  of 
happineaa,  and  aa  aometimra  oocura  in  life,  abe  waa  granted  by 
tho  godfi,  beneficent  or  ironic  aa  ynu  plcaso.  a  period  of  aecurity 
when  everything  menacing  nr  dangeroua  withdrew  and  it  teemed 
aa  though  tho  whole  worl'.  were  in  a  conapiracy  to  cheat  her  into 
con£dencc.  Sb"  waa  confident  bccauae  abe  did  net  think;  the 
aimply  did  not  tnink  at  all.  8bo  loted  Martin  and  Martin  loved 
her;  cased  in  that  golden  armour,  aho  confronted  her  aunta  and 
the  houae  and  the  world  behind  the  bouae  with  a  sublime  and 
happy  confidence.  She  loved  her  aunta  now,  she  loved  Martha  and 
the  parrot  and  the  cat,  and  she  could  not  believe  that  they  did 
not  all  lovo  her.  Because  Martin  loved  her  tho  rest  of  the  jrorld 
must  also  do  ao,  and  if  they  did  net  abe  would  compel  them. 

For  three  whole  weeka  the  spell  lasted,  for  three  marvellous 
golden  weeka.  When  abe  looked  back  afterwards  she  wondered 
that  she  had  not  seen  many  things,  warnings,  portents,  whatever  you 
please  to  call  them.  But  for  three  weeks  she  saw  nothing  but 
Martin,  and  for  three  weeks  he  saw  nothing  but  Maggie. 

She  began  her  career  of  defiance  at  once  by  informing  Aunt  Anne 
that  abe  was  now  going  out  every  morning  to  do  her  shopping. 
Considering  the  confinement  to  the  horrio  that  her  life  had  always 
been,  this  was  such  a  declaration  of  independence  ns  those  walla 
had  never  encountered  before.  But  Aunt  Anne  never  turned  one 
of  her  shining  neatly  ordered  hoirs. 

"  Shopping,  my  deor  (  "  she  asked. 

"  Yea,"  said  Maggie,  looking  her  full  in  the  face. 

"What  sort  of  shopping,  dear!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  said  Maggie.  "There's  alwaya  something 
every  day." 

Maggie  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  her  aunt  had  in  aome 
way  mysterioualy  defeated  her  by  this  sudden  abandonment  of  all 
203 


206 


THE  CAPTIVES 


bell  in  the  hem  of  it.  C  ^hrthlJl.  .*  ^ttle  tinkling  Chapel 
shadows,  and  off  she  went  ^      "^  """"  ""'^"'"'d  'he 

H^r^^^  ZoS.^7n  ?SV*  ^r-  .°'^-^.  -'^'"^ 
because  you  could  look  into  a  bookine,'J*  .-^h  ''  f "'"  t''*'  P'«™ 
time  without  seeming  odd,  and  there  wL,?„  *°'  ""/'"  «  '""« 

that  no  one  noticed  yon.  The  r  h^bTrt'"  """"^  ^^^'f  ^^''^"^ 
coroerof  the  Green  Park  and  ftJ,  I..  "  ™'  *°  ™*  *»  «he 
omnibus  and  go  as  far  as  theri  M  -I'"  ""^  *"?  "^  «  """o- 
Maggie  never  in  after  ife  found  tbo'l  "'"""  *'«'  """'"^d  time, 
gone,  she  supposed,  to  Chelsea  to  St  T '^.'V^"'"-  ^W  had 
of  the  city,  to  the  Angel  S«on  to  S^"'f7''»'*'  *»  'b"  heart 
but  places  during  those  three  w«ks  had  Z  '""^^^  ""d  beyond, 
stones,  houses  no  walls  and  h,,™!!*  ''"™^''  ''"^'^  had  no 

tried  on  one  or  two  tSsTo  go^^Tu^b:  tfT'"'"'?-  "^"^^ 
swing  of  the  open  air,  the  rush  of  fh»  „•  a}"^  ^^^^  '"'»'<"'  'be 
of  men  and  women.  Often  tt'^  ♦  "^  -^  ^  independence 
him  for  luncheon  and  the  aftern^;^  butT""*  ^''  *"  ^'"^  '""' 

"No,"  she  said,  « ewnr^inrT'    a     ^  T'  "''"  'han  he. 
A  little  later  on    t  wM  ^    "felv     Yon  ""  "iT'"^  *■•«"  <"■'**• 
it  to  me."  ^''^-     ""  ""St  'eave  that  part  of 

matVSer.  tt  slf^^ufd  Lofri,  '"''  f°"''  ^  *»  " 
evening.  In  some  strangt  way  she  t»^7  •  f,  ^"^  ?"""*  «  ''^"^^ 
although  s.e  had  already  prdg:^%:rwor'ft''hfm°'  *'  "^l'"^' 
much  more  final-  «No"  .!,«  ti,„  ^f  7   ,         ""m  on  something 

ment  comes  for  me  to 'leave  eve^^tV  *°  t'"^/'  ""•'^°  "'^  "<>- 
knowthatlamnotdoUTchZw  j-*''/7'"  «"'  *>"'  ''<'  ^hall 
He  felt  something  of  that  too    aid  ^'.'?P'^^"  «"  ^^^ing's  fun." 
He  hugged  his  unfelfishnet    for  Z  fi«t  *•"*  *'^,,*.''  f^'™'"'^  l^"' 
to  him  that  he  wanted  to  folW     *"* '™«  !°  .his  life  it  seemed 
other  women  it  Tad  ^n  so  diffTreT'f°i^      1  '-■  ""''  "'"'  *« 
obey  him  he  had  left  ttem     R„f  •  ^  ^  *'',7  ^^  ""*  ^""^'^  to 
weeks  they  were  discoverer.;  th.       ,"^  !,"  *""«''  *hese  three 
though  it  wire  part  of  tlr     *''""f'''^'  «"d  <»>«  another,  and,  as 
of  themselvT  On  the  w  oTth'e  'k'""'"''".'^'  ""'^  "^^  ''^^t  P"' 
their  hands  locked  under  hfs  nt        '*  "^.""^  '"*  "'"^  '"pother, 
jolting,  and  jog^ng  about  their  7°f  *V""  ''"'"Pi"*  ""d 

a  giimpseVtheXe-  E^d^  ^g^^  ^f^  >?- T^^ 


PARADISE  207 

really  divine  creatures,  quite  modestly  divine,  bu»  nevertheless  safe 
from  all  human  rayafres  and  earthly  failings,  wicked  and  cowardly 
tnoughts.  and  ambitions  and  desires. 

Indeed,  during  those  three  weeks  Maggie  saw  nothing  of  Martin's 
weaknesses,  his  suspicions  and  dreads,  his  temper  and  self-abase- 
ment. The  nobility  that  Martin  had  in  him  was  true  nobility  his 
veij  weaknesses  came  from  his  sharp  consciousness  of  what  purity 
and  self-sacrifice  and  asceticism  really  were,  and  that  they  were 
indeed  the  only  things  for  man  to  live  by.  During  those  weeks 
he  saw  so  truly  the  sweetness  and  fidelity  and  simplicity  of  Maggie 
that  his  conscience  was  killed,  his  scruples  were  numbed.  He  did 
not  want  during  those  weeks  any  sensual  excitement,  any  de- 
pravity  any  hcense  A  quiet  and  noble  asceticism  seemed  to  him 
perfectly  possible.    He  burst  out  once  to  Maggie  with- 

"I  can't  conceive,  Maggie,  why  I  ever  thought  life  complicated. 
Youve  straightened  everything  out  for  me,  made  all  the  troubles 
at  home  seem  nothing,  shown  me  what  nonsense  it  was  wanting 
the  rotten  things  I  was  always  after." 

But  Maggie  had  no  eloquence  in  reply-she  could  not  make  up 
fine  sentences;  ,t  embarrassed  her  dreadfully  to  tell  him  even  that 

tnfn  "ir  ff  :,,"°^-T'''?.''t  ""'  «'°t™™t«»  it  was  her  habit  to 
tuin  It  off  with  a  ,oke  if  she  could.  She  wanted  terribly  to  ask 
him  sometimes  what  he  had  meant  when  he  said  that  he  didn't 
ove  her  as  he  had  loved  other  women.  She  had  never  the  courage 
to  ask  him  this.  She  wondered  sometimes  why  it  had  hurt  her 
when  he  had  said  he  loved  her  as  though  she  were  a  man  friend 
without  any  question  of  sex.  «  Surely  that's  enough  for  me,"  she 
would  ask  herself,  "  it  means  that  it's  much  more  lasting  and  safe  " 
And  yet  it  was  not  enough. 

Nevertheless,  during  these  weeks  she  found  his  brotherly  care 
ot  her  adorable,  he  found  her  shyness  divine. 

"Every  other  woman  I  have  ever  been  in  love  with,"  he  told 
her  once  "  I  have  always  kept  asking  them  would  they  ever  change, 
and  would  they  love  me  always,  and  all  that  kind  of  nonsense.  A 
man  always  begins  like  that,  and  then  the  time  comes  when  he 
wishes  to  God  they  would  change,  and  they  won't.     But  you're 

r.,  *  T    i,*n'*'  ^'^^-  ^  ^'""'  y""'"  "«™''  "^'"e^'  «"»  I  know 
tnat  1  shall  never  want  you  to." 

"  No,  I  shall  never  change,"  said  Maggie. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  the  three  weeks  a  little  incident  oc- 
curred that  was  trivial  enough  at  the  time,  but  appeared  afterwards 
as  something  significant  and  full  of  meaning.    This  incident  was 


:.'08 


THE  CAPTIVES 


'  i 


why  Maggie  had  avoided  him  durtg  .hesr^t  mon^ 
J.a,o„  had  been  tha.  she  really  could  norj^^hol  f.,.t°™: 
in  the  Rcneral  conspiracy  to  drive  her  into  the  Chanel     H.  L  ?i 
not  do  that  of  his  own  will  she  was  sure,  but  being  in     ve  :   [ 
Aunt  Anne  he  might  think  it  his  sacred  dutv    anH  \uZ^ 
terrified  of  "sacred  duties."     Thoref"rwhen.'    hrl^^ ^.f™: 

J»mTr  "Zf'-"  '°,  '^  ""''•  ^'  ™"*^'"  •■"  ""-^  i"  the  drawTng- 
room   her  first  impulse  was  to  run  away;  then  she  looked  ntKll 

He  looked  more  wandering  than  ever  with  his  high  white  collar 
h.s  large  spectacles,  and  his  thin,  dustv  hair-  th^  ZT^t 
hidden   vital  spirit  burnt  beneath  \bZ'JZ:  and  h "  fl"w:: 
so  kindly  that  she  felt  ashamed  of  herself  for  having  avoid^  hTm 

I'nt*  u*'  'T^'  "*  "  "'"'  Avies'."  she  said. 
«  D    u       '^,',f  '°°'''°«  "*  ^"  "the'  blankly, 
door  °         ""°*  ""'"'"  ""*•"  "•«'  •■«  t"""^  towards  the 

"Thai-.**  f"^-  /T";;  r™'*-^  ''"™'* »««"  y"  f^  months.- 

That  g  not  my  fault,"  he  answered.     « I  thought  we  wp»f„ 
have  been  friends,  and  you've  run  away  every  t  "me  yl  saw  the 
""^T  i,  T  ^''="'  <=™*  Pol^'n^  ■•ou°d  the  doo?" 
,„evf'     ^«  ""''•  "I  •'"^r™  h«n  frightened  of  every  one 

.,','/"'l^°!!''*.°'"  ""'''"  ^^  «*ed,  looking  at  her  with  that 
sudden  bright  shapness  that  was  so  peculiarly  his.  ' 

Tl^lil'^  J'^^'    f'V^r'^^-     "^''"   f"Khtened  of  nobody" 
Im  m  a  bad  mood,"  he  said.    "I've  been  trying  for  week,  f„ 
get  on  with  a  novel.    Just  a  fortnight  ago  a  7oung  man  and  a 
young  woman  took  shelter  from  the  rain  in  «ie  doo^ay  of  a 
deserted  hous^they're  still  there  now,  and  they  haveX  said  a 
word  to  one  another  all  that  time  " 
"Why  not?"  asked  Maggie. 
".'^u   v"""'?  "™''  "P^"''-"  "^e  answered  her. 
«  *L  .  I      •  ■/''^"I'l  ""'  "'"'*''"  «t°^"  said  Maggie  brightly 
Ah,"  he  said,  shaking  hia  head.    "  What's  the  usf  of  start  ng 


PARADISE 


209 


finishing  It  if  you  know  no  one  is  ever  going  to  reed  it  ? » 
Jiaggie  shook  her  head. 

didJt'');,'LV^1."?r^-  ^"^  ^  ""  y°"  '"'  yo"  toW  •"«  «h.t  you 
didnt  mind  whether  any  one  ever  read  them  or  not,  and  that  vou 
just  wrote  them  because  you  loved  doing  them."  ^ 

Jivery  author,"  said  Mr.  Magnus  gloomily  ".ava  th.t  f^  J,im 
""^tn^'ttrlrn"  '^'?°';j'  '-?  ''^  -"  "-^W.  rm  a^'r- 

inf Wn^o^uS^/n  ;:Xi;v:e^t?y  i^y'-^ 

quUe  wX':  "'*™'°''  '"  •""    ^'  ^""^"^  ""  '""'''^"'y  ""*  '"-^ 

J,'i2_w"f''\f"  *•''!'  *•■**'*  «»'■''«  «»•  "^0°  know  «bout  it,  of 
I?m^^'"^r^  !.  '"'?"  ^  "'*'"'  ■""»  *«  t'ooWe  it's  mak  ng! 
I  m  outs.de  .t  and  you're  outside  it,  but  we're  being  brought  into 

1  ntt?"l?r;;  J  T  "^  ""t'"  ^S"''*"  "«  '»™  'he  people  who 
are  in  it  ?    It  s  so  easy  to  say  that  it's  nonsense,  that  people  ought 

L^.nT  T'^''^''-  \^'}  T"  ^''''"''-  "»  inoanity-Anow  al 
that  and,  of  course,  I  don't  believe  for  a  moment  that  Qod'a 

S?„yT>,  "•".""*  ^^  *^  °.°  ^"^  "^««'»  E^e  especiaUy  forThe 
benefit  of  Thurston.  Miss  Avies  and  the  rest,  but  thTt  doesn't  end 

t7^.Zt  *"-'°M*'  """^  ",''r"''-  There's  more  in  somT^p  e's 
madness  than  m  other  people's  sanity,  and  anyway,  even  if  ^?rall 

Xr^nH^-r"""  '"''  "  ^'''^  *°  yo"  """»"<»  '""e  of  the 
?t  ZLm  ""''".l*  certain  breaking  up  of  all  this  place.  And 
t  probably  means  the  triumph  of  a  charlatan  like  Thurston  and 
Ae  increase  of  humbug  in  the  world  and  the  discouragement  of  aU 
the  honest  adventurers.    I  call  myself  an  adventure"  you  taot, 

U  iW^  wJf'  f'T*''  ^  "  V""  "P^i^en-but  I'm  damned  if 
It  isnt  better  to  be  a  poor  adventurer  tb-  to  be  a  fat  swollen, 
c^tented  stay-at-home  who  can  ««  just  ar  as  his  nose  and  hS 
cheque-book  and  might  be  just  as  well  dead  as  alive-I  beg  your 
n" taUy"'  '"'''^'°^'  "*"'  "'«'ri°<^-I''n  not  niyw&.'rm 

«w'l"'"'^  T-  '•"'.««^.*»'  he  was  in  great  agitation  of  mind, 
and  some  of  this  agitation  communicated  itself  to  her.    Had  she 
^o^^l^K""  ^""K^*""! .""  *hi8  through  her  own  happiness! 
I  ^  ?*]"'  '^^  ^t'  P"'*  °*  '*  «"•  whether  she  wished  or  no. 

«!.  rt.  i"/°.'!.*w'"'''".','',?  "''*^'  "'"'PP''*  her  voice  a  little, 
"is  the  real  truth  about  it?" 

"The  real  truth  "-he  looked  at  her  suddenly  with  a  tender, 


210 


THE  CAPTIVES 


most  channintr  smile  that  took  away  hii  uglinesa.  "Ah,  that's 
a  tremendous  question.  Part  of  the  truth  is  that  Warlock's  been 
praying  so  much  and  eating:  so  little  that  it  would  be  odd  indeed 
if  he  didn't  see  visions  of  some  sort.  And  part  of  the  truth  is  that 
there  are  a  lot  of  women  in  the  world  who'll  believe  simply  any- 
thing that  you  tell  them.  It's  part  of  the  truth,  too,  that  there 
are  scoundrels  in  the  world  who  will  take  advantage  of  anybody's 
simple  trust  to  fill  their  pockets.  But  that's  not  all,"  he  went  on, 
shaking  his  head,  "no,  that's  not  aU.  It's  part  of  the  truth  that 
there  is  a  mystery,  and  that  human  beings  will  go  on  searching 
whatever  all  the  materialists  and  merchants  in  the  world  can  try 
to  do  to  stop  them.  I  remember  years  ago  an  old  man,  a  little 
off  his  dot,  telling  my  father  that  he,  the  old  man,  was  a  treasure 
hunter.  He  told  my  father  that  the  world  was  divided  into  two 
halves,  the  treasure  hunters  and  the  Town  Councillors,  and  that 
the  two  halves  would  never  join  and  never  even  meet.  My  father, 
who  was  a  practical  man,  said  that  the  old  idiot  should  be  shut  up 
in  an  asylum,  and  evetatually  I  believe  he  was.  'We'll  have  him 
going  off  one  day,'  my  father  said, '  in  a  cargo  boat  with  a  map  in 
his  pocket,  looking  for  gold  pieces.'  But  it  wasn't  gold  pieces  he 
was  after." 

To  Maggie  it  was  always  irritating  the  way  that  Mr.  Magnus 
would  wander  away  from  the  subject.  She  brought  him  back  now 
with  a  jerk. 

"No,  but  what  do  you  think  is  going  to  happen?"  she  asked 
him. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  « I  can't  tell,  but  I  know  all  my 
happiness  here  is  coming  to  an  end,  and  I  don't  know  what  I 
shall  do.  If  I  were  a  strong  man  I  would  go  out  and  find  all  the 
other  treasure  hunters,  all  the  vicious  ones,  and  the  diseased,  and 
the  drunkards  and  the  perverted,  and  I  would  try  to  found  some 
kind  of  a  society  so  that  they  should  recognise  one  another  all 
the  world  over  and  shouldn't  feel  so  lonely  and  deserted  and  hope- 
lessly done  for.  I  don't  mean  a  society  for  improving  them,  mind 
you,  or  warning  them  or  telling  them  they'll  go  to  prison  if  they 
don't  do  better,  that's  none  of  my  business.  But  it  seems  to  be  a 
solemn  fact  that  you  aren't  a  treasure  hunter  until  there's  some- 
thing wrong  with  you,  until  you've  got  a  sin  that's  stronger  than 
you  are,  or  until  you've  done  something  that's  disgraceful  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world— not  that  I  believe  in  weakness  or  in  giving  way 
to  things.  No  one  admires  the  strong  and  the  brave  more  than  I 
do.  I  think  a  man's  a  fool  if  he  doesn't  fight  as  hard  as  he  can. 
But  there's  a  brotherhood  of  the  dissatisfied  and  the  ujeasy  and 


PARADISE 


211 


the  anxious-hearted,  and  I  believe  it's  they  who  will  discover 
the  Grail  in  the  end  if  it's  ever  going  to  be  discovered  at 
all. 

He  broke  off.  then  said  restlessly:  "I  think  thinRs  out,  you  know, 
and  at  last  I  come  to  a  conclusion,  and  it  ends  by  being  a  plati- 
tude that  all  the  Koody,  goody  books  have  said  times  without 
number.  But  all  the  same  that  doesn't  prevent  it  from  being 
my  discovery.  It's  nothing  to  do  with  goudncss  and  nothing  to 
do  with  evil,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  strength,  and  nothing  to  do 
with  weakness;  it  simply  is  that  there  are  some  people  who  want 
what  they  can  see  and  no  more,  and  there  are  others,  the  baffled, 
fighting  and  disordered  others,  for  whom  nothing  that  they  can  see 
with  their  mortal  eyes  is  enough,  and  who'll  be  restless  all  their 
days  with  their  queer  little  maps  and  their  mvstcrious,  thumbed 
direct- -ns  to  some  island  or  other  that  they'll  never  reach  and 
never  e.en  get  a  ship  for." 

He  j;  topped  and  there  was  a  long  silence  between  them.  Maggie 
was  silent  because  she  never  knew  what  to  say  when  he  burst  into 
parables  and  divided  mankind,  under  strange  names,  into  dif- 
ferent camps.  And  yet  this  time  she  did  know  a  little  what  he 
was  after.  There  was  that  house  of  Katharine  Mark's  the  other 
day,  with  its  comfort  and  quiet  and  kind  smiling  clergyman— 
and  there  was  this  strange  place  with  all  of  them  in  an  odd  quiver 
of  excitement  waiting  for  something  to  happen.  But  she  couldn't 
speak  to  him  about  that,  she  couldn't  say  anything  to  him  at  all. 
He  cleared  his  throat  as  though  he  were  embarrassed  and  were 
conscious  that  he  had  been  making  a  fool  of  himself.  Maggie  felt 
that  he  was  disappointed  in  her.  She  was  sorry  for  that,  but  she 
was  as  she  was. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you're  happy,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  wist- 
full.v.    He  got  up  and  stood  awkwardly  looking  at  her. 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something,"  he  said,  "that's  really 
what  I  came  for.     I  want  you  to  promise  that  you  won't  in  any 
case  leave  your  aunts  before  the  New  Year." 
She  got  up,  looked  at  him  and  gave  him  her  hand. 
"  Yes,"  she  said.    "  I  promise  that." 

The  year  had  only  a  week  or  two  more  to  run  and  she  was  not 
afraid  of  that  little  space  of  time.  He  seemed  to  want  to  say 
something  more,  but  after  hesitating  he  suddenly  made  a  bolt  for 
the  door  and  she  could  hear  him  stumbling  downstairs. 

She  forgot  him  almost  as  soon  as  he  had  left  the  house,  but  his 
words  nevertheless  brought  her  to  consider  her  aunts.  Next  morn- 
ing at  breakfast  time  she  had  a  further  reason  to  consider  them. 


[ 


I  i 


III 


212 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Aunt  Elizabeth  met  her,  when  she  came  downatain,  with  a  very 
grave  face.  . 

"  Your  aunt's  had  a  terrible  night,"  she  said.  "  She's  insisted  on 
coming  downstairs— I  told  her  not.  She  never  listens  to  anrthing 
I  say." 

Uaggie  could  see  that  something  more  than  ordinary  had  oc- 
curred. Aunt  Elizabeth  was  on  the  edge  of  tears,  and  in  so 
confused  a  state  of  mind  that  she  put  sugar  into  her  egg,  and 
then  ate  it  with  a  puzzled  air  as  though  she  could  not  be  sure 
whj-  it  tasted  so  strange.  When  Aunt  Anne  came  in  it  was  plain 
enoug^h  that  she  had  wrestled  with  demons  during  the  night. 
Maggie  had  often  seen  her  before  battling  with  pain  and  refusing 
to  be  defeated.  Now  she  looked  as  though  she  had  but  risen  from 
the  dead.  It  was  a  ghost  in  very  truth  that  stood  there;  a  ghost 
in  black  silk  dress  with  white  wristbands  and  a  stiff  white  collar, 
black  hair,  so  tightly  (Jrawn  back  and  ordered  that  it  was  like  a 
shining  dtuU-cap.  Her  face  was  white,  with  the  effect  of  a  chalk 
drawing  into  which  live,  black,  burning  eyes  had  been  stuck.  But 
it  was  none  of  these  things  that  frightened  Maggie.  It  was  the 
expression  somewhere  in  the  mouth,  in  the  eyes,  in  the  pale  bony 
hands,  that  spoke  of  some  meeting  with  a  torturer  whose  powers 
were  ahnost  omniscient— almost,  but  not  quite.  Pain,  sheer  physi- 
cal, brutal  pain,  came  into  the  room  hulking,  steering  behind  Aunt 
jinne's  shoulder.  It  grinned  at  Maggie  and  said,  "You  haven't 
begun  to  feel  what  I  can  do  yet,  but  every  one  has  his  turn.  You 
needn't  flatter  yourself  that  you're  going  to  escape." 

When  Aunt  Anne  moved  now  it  was  with  infinite  caution,  as 
though  she  were  stalking  her  enemy  and  was  afraid  lest  any  in- 
cautious gesture  should  betray  her  into  his  ambush.  No  less 
marked  than  her  torture  was  her  courage  ar,'  the  expectation  that 
sustained  that  courage.  She  had  her  eyes  set  upon  something  very 
sure  and  very  certain.  Maggie  was  afraid  to  think  what  that 
expectation  might  be.  But  Maggie  had  grown  during  these  last 
weeks.  She  did  not  now  kiss  her  aunt  and  try  to  show  an  affection 
which  was  not  so  genuine  as  she  would  have  liked  it  to  be  by 
nervous  little  demonstrations.    She  said  gravely: 

"  I  am  so  sorry.  Aunt  Anne,  that  you  have  had  so  bad  a  night. 
Shall  I  stay  this  morning  and  read  to  you?" 

Even  as  she  spoke  she  realised  with  sharp  pain  what  giving  up 
her  meeting  with  Martin  meant. 

"What  were  you  going  to  do,  dear?"  asked  Aunt  Anne,  her 
eyes  seeing  as  ever  far  beyond  Maggie  and  the  room  and  the  house. 
As  she  spoke  Thomas,  the  cat,  came  forward  and  began  rubbing 


PARADISE  213 

himself  very  gently,  as  though  he  were  whispering  something  to 
hw  mistress,  against  her  dress.  Uaggie  had  an  impulse,  so  strong 
that  It  almost  defeated  her,  to  burst  out  with  the  whole  truth.  She 
almost  said:  "I'm  going  out  to  meet  Martin  Warlock,  whom  I  love 
and  with  whom  I'm  going  to  live."  She  hated  deceit,  she  hated 
lies.  But  this  was  some  one  else's  secret  as  well  as  her  own,  and 
telling  the  truth  now  would  only  lead  to  much  pain  ar.d  distress, 
and  then  more  lies  and  more  deceit. 
So  she  said : 

"  rm  going  to  Piccadilly  to  get  some  things  for  Aunt  Elizabeth." 
Yes,     said  Aunt  Elizabeth,  "she  saves  me  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.    She  9  a  good  girl." 
"  I  know  she's  a  good  girl,"  said  Aunt  Anne  softly. 
It  was  strange  to  remember  the  time  not  so  long  ago  when  to 
ran  out  of  the  house  and  post  a  letter  had  seemed  a  bold  defiant 
thing  to  do  threatened  with  grave  penalties.     The  aunts  had 
changed  their  plans  about  her  and  had  given  her  no  reasons  for 
doing  so.    No  reasons  were  ever  given  in  that  house  for  anything 
that  was  done.     The  more  Maggie  went  out,  the  more  she  was 
drawn  in. 

On  her  way  to  Martin  that  morning  the  figure  of  Aunt  Anne 
haunted  her.  She  felt  for  a  brief  moment  that  she  would  do  any- 
thing, yes,  even  surrender  Martin,  to  case  her  aunt's  pain.  And 
then  she  knew  that  she  would  not,  and  she  called  herself  cruel  and 
selfish  and  felt  for  an  instant  a  dark  shadow  threatening  her  be- 
cause she  was  so.  But  when  she  saw  Martin  outside  Hatchard's 
she  forgot  it  all.  It  was  a  strange  thing  that  during  those  weeks 
they  neither  of  them  asked  any  questions  about  their  home  affairs. 
It  was  as  though  they  both  inwardly  realised  that  there  was  trouble 
for  them  of  every  kind  waiting  outside  and  that  they  could  only 
definitely  realise  their  happiness  by  building  a  wall  around  them- 
selves. They  knew  perhaps  in  their  secret  hearts,  or  at  any  rate 
Martin  knew,  that  they  could  not  hold  their  castle  for  long.  But 
is  not  the  gift  of  three  perfect  weeks  a  great  thing  for  any  human 
being  to  be  given— and  who  has  the  temerity,  the  challenging 
audacity,  to  ask  with  confidence  for  even  so  much? 
On  this  particular  morriing  Martin  said  to  her: 
"Before  we  get  into  the  'bus,  Maggie,  you've  got  to  com )  into 
a  shop  with  me."  H?  was  especially  boyish  and  happy  and  natu- 
ral that  morning.  It  ;vaE  strange  how  his  face  altered  when  he 
was  happy.  His  brow  was  clear,  his  eyes  were  bright,  and  he  had 
a  kind  of  crooked  confident  smile  that  must  have  won  anybody's 
heart.    His  whole  carriage  was  that  of  a  boy  who  was  entering  life 


214 


THE  CAPTIVES 


hZ*n!„hr'  'i^f  with  undaunted  cxp«^ctation  that  it  could  give 
him  nothing  but  the  best  and  jolliest   things.     Maggie  a.  she 

aer  thought.  Ho  shall  never  be  unhappy  again." 
tJ^lL"°'l^  the  street  together,  and  stood  for  a  moment  close 
together  on  the  kerb  in  the  middle  way  as  though  they  were  guito 
ah>ne  in  the  world.  She  caught  his  arm  and  thoy  r^nTfor"  a 
charging  motor-'bus.  laughing.  People  turned  back  and  looked  a? 
them,  so  happy  they  seemed.  They  walked  up  Bond  Slr«t  and 
Martin  drew  her  into  a  jeweller's.  She  had  never  possessed  any 
ornament  except  her  coral  necklace  in  all  her  life  and  she  knew 

Itwas,^Jl'  %V'""  •"'"  '"""^  '^'  '"«"i  beautiful  thin^ 
It  was  useless  of  her  to  pretend  that  she  did  not  know  that  he  wTs 
soing  to  give  her  something.  She  did  not  pretend.  A  very  thin 
eld  man,  who  looked  like  one  of  the  prophets,  drawn  out^f  the 
wilderness  and  clothed  by  the  most  fashionable  of  London  ta  lors! 

itil™  Tl  l^""  '"'•"''''"  "'  '"'  '""""l  *°  '•>e»  because  he  saw 
at  once  that  they  were  not  customers  who  were  likely  to  add  very 
much  to  his  shop's  exchequer,  produced  a  large  tray,  full  of  rln« 

hat  glittered  and  sparkled  and  danced  as  though  they'd  been  toM 
to  show  themselves  ofiF  to  the  best  possible  advanta^.  But  for 
Maggie  at  once  there  was  only  one  possible  ring.  It  was  a  thin 
hoop  of  gold  with  three  small  pearls  set  in  L  middle  of  it" 
"r„  "/  "^^  I'P''"?'  ""lO"*  "•  "  ""  in  f«ct  less  striking  than 
and  1  -^  °  '[  'i"'^  i?  *"  *""'•  M'^^e  ^°<>^^  "t  the  ring 
« I  ,h»l.  E,!*'   "^^"^  "  J^"?*^'*-    ^'  ""'  "'  thou^b  the  ring  said 

I  shall  belong  to  you  whether  you  take  me  or  no." 

Now     said  Martin  with  a  little  catch  in  hi-  throat,  "you  make 
your  choice.  Maggie."    He  -as  not  a  millionaire,  but  heTdW 

i  Ml".rl*'i°'  "^^"^^"^  ""E  she  chose  she  should  have. 
fj,=         u".     T^fPJ-  whispering  because  th,  shop  was  so  large  and 
the  prophet  so  indifferent,  "don't  you  think  you'd  better  choose"" 

pearl  upoXr.  '  '''*  '^  '"'"'•"'  «"«  "'  *«  *-«  ""'« 

«rj'iV°'l^"''^',"^  want  to  give  you  what  you'd  like." 
I  d  like  what  you'd  like,"  said  Maggie,  still  whispering. 
„=T^       t  r^^W^  'be  prophet  made  a  little  impatient  movement 
as  though  he  really  could  not  be  expected  to  stand  waiting  there  for 
ever.    Also  a  magnificent  lady,  in  furs  so  rich  that  you  could  Z 

about"?n  »  b?  ^"*  *■''  ^^'^"^\"°^-  was  waving  ropes  of  peark 
about  in  a  blase  manner  very  close  to  them,  and  MagKie  had  a 
strange,  entirely  unreasonable  fear  that  this  splendour  would  sud- 


PARADISE 


215 


denly  turn  round  and  snatch  the  little  p«arl  ring  and  go  off 
With  it. 

"w '"'•!.  l*"."  '"'^■"  '"^  MagKie.  pointing.  She  heard  the 
prophet  miff  bia  contempt,  but  she  did  not  care. 

Mnrtin,  although  he  would  willingly  have  given  her  the  moat 
gorgeous  ring  in  the  shop,  was  delighted  to  find  that  her  taste  was 
BO  good,  and  like  herself.    He  had  great  ideas  about  taste,  somo 

"i;  u  t""^  "'  i"'^  ***"  '*'»*  •■"  '♦""««  ""«>"«•'  upbringing 
should  have  c-used  her  to  like  gaudy  things.  He  could  have 
huKRed  her  before  them  all  when  she  chose  that  particular  ring, 
which  he  had  himself  noticed  as  the  prettiest  and  neatest  there 

Just  see  whether  it  fits,  darling."  he  said.  At  the  word  "  dar- 
ling the  prophet  east  another  despairing  look  about  the  shop,  as 
though  he  knew  well  tho  length  of  time  that  lovers  could  take 
over  these  things  if  they  once  put  their  hearts  into  it.  Magsio 
was  ashamed  of  her  stubby  finger  as  she  put  her  hand  forward- 
but  tho  ring  fitted  exactly. 

case"*""'  "**"''  °°'''  *'"''°"  "^"^  "*'"  ^"*  ^"  P"*  •°*°  » 
JJ!,1  "°°derful  he  is."  thought  Maggie.  Not  as  other  women 
might  have  thought,  "I  wonder  how  many  times  he's  done  this 
before.  Maggie  thought  then  that  it  would  be  more  proper  to 
retire  a  little  so  that  she  should  not  know  the  price-and  she  stood 
m  the  doorway  of  the  shop,  looking  upon  the  wind  and  weather  in 
aond  b  reet  and  the  magnificent  motor  car  that  belonged  to  the 
lady  with  the  pearls  and  a  magnificent  chauffeur,  who  was  so 
superior  that  it  was  probable  that  the  lady  with  the  pearls  be- 
longed to  him-and  she  saw  none  of  these  things,  but  was  con- 
scious of  herself  and  Martin  wrapt  together  in  a  mist  of  happiness 
tliat  no  outside  force  could  penetrate. 

As  they  walked  away  from  the  shop  she  said:  "Of  course  I 
won  t  be  able  to  wear  it." 

He  put  tho  little  square  box,  wrapped  in  tissue  paper,  into  her 
dress'-'^"    *'"""^"'=  "^°"  ™n  '>'«''■•  it  on  a  ribbon  under  your 

"Oh  yes,"  she  whispered,  pressing  his  hand  for  a  moment, 
w  5r  vv  "?*'''""''  ™  *<>  a  '•>«'  *hat  morning,  but  walked  ahead 
Hmdly,  blissfully,  they  did  not  know  whither.  They  were  now  in 
wild  days  at  the  end  of  November  and  the  weather  was  tempes- 
tuous, the  wind  blowing  with  a  screaming  fury  and  black  clouds 
scudding  across  the  sky  like  portents.  Little  heavy  drops  of  rain 
tell  with  a  sudden  urgency  as  though  they  were  emphasising  some 
i-'-Tet;  figures  were  swept  through  the  streets  and  the  roar  of  the 


216 


THE  CAPTIVES 


wind  WM  »  TchaiMnt  th«t  the  traffic  aeemed  to  mike  no  lound. 
And  yet  nothing  heppened— no  gnat  •.,'nn  of  rain,  no  devaitatins 
flood.    It  WM  •  d«y  of  warning. 

Thejr  noticed  nothing  of  the  weather.  It  might  bare  been  a 
world  of  burning  aunthina  for  all  they  aaw  of  it. 

*'  You  know,"  Hid  Martin,  "  I've  never  liked  giving  any  one  any- 
thing  10  much  aa  I  liked  giving  you  that  ring." 
"  I  wi«h  I  could  give  you  aomething  too,"  she  said. 
"Well,  you  can,"  he  said.  "Some  little  thing  that  I'll  carry 
•bout  with  me  alwayi.  ...  Oh,  Maggie!"  he  went  on.  "  I.n't 
it  atrange  how  easy  it  ii  to  be  good  when  no  one  worriee  you. 
Theee  last  ten  days  with  you  I  couldn't  have  done  anything  wrong 
If  I  tried.  It  isn't  fair  to  say  we  can  help  ourselves.  We  can't 
Something  just  comee  along  and  seizes  you  and  maket  you  do 
wrong." 

"Oh,  I  doa't  know,"  said  Maggie.  "Don't  let's  talk  about 
those  things.  It's  like  Mr.  Magnus,  who  says  we're  treasure 
hunters  or  pools  of  water,  or  old  men  in  asylums.  I  don't  under- 
itand  aU  that.  I'm  just  Maggie  Cardinal.— All  the  same  I  be- 
lieve one  can  do  what  one  wants  to.  I  don't  believe  people  can 
make  one  do  things. 

"Do  you  think  any  one  could  make  me  not  love  you  if  they 
tried  f  I  shall  love  you  always,  whatever  happens.  I  know  I  shall 
never  change.  I'm  not  one  to  change.  I'm  obstinate.  Father 
uied  to  say  '  obstinate  as  a  pig.' " 

That  made  her  think  of  the  old  days  at  St.  Dreot's,  just  then, 
as  they  seemed,  so  remote.  She  began  to  tell  him  of  those  old 
days,  of  the  Vicarage,  of  the  holes  in  the  floor  and  the  ceiling, 
of  her  loneliness  and  the  way  the  villagers  used  to  talk,  of  her 
solitary  walks  and  looking  down  on  to  Folchester  from  the  hill-top. 
of  her  father's  sudden  death,  of  Uncle  Mathew.  .  .  . 
"He's  a  funny  M  codger,"  said  Martin.  "What  does  he  do!" 
"  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  really  don't  know  how  ho 
lives.    I'm  afraid  it's  something  rather  bad." 

"I've  known  men  like  that,"  said  Martin,  "plenty,  but  it's  funny 
that  one  of  them  should  be  connected  with  you.  It  doesn't  seem 
as  though  you  could  have  anything  to  do  with  a  man  like  that." 
"Oh,  but  I  like  him!"  said  Maggie.  "He's  been  very  kind  to 
me  often.  When  I  was  all  alone  after  father  died  he  was  very 
good — "  She  stopped  abruptly  remembering  how  he'd  come  into 
her  bedroom.  "Drink's  been  his  trouble,  and  never  having  any 
money.  He  told  me  once  if  he  had  money  he'd  never  do  a  thing 
be  shouldn't" 


PARADISE 


217 


"Tm,"  Mid  Mirtin.  "Th«t'i  what  they  ilwiy*  My  whon  fhey 
haven t  any  money,  and  then  when  they  hare  any  its  womo  than 
ewr. 

He  wai  thinking,  perhapa,  of  himielf.  At  any  rate  to  atop 
rcmoneful  thoushts  he  licRnn  to  tell  her  about  hia  own  chiWluiod. 
"Mine  wn«  very  diffcriut  from  yours,  Uaggic,"  he  aaid.  "/ 
wasn't  lonely.  You  don't  know  what  a  fusi  people  made  of  mo.  I 
''••  ™"™i<f''.  «oo.  I  thought  I  was  chosen,  by  Ood,  oirt  of  all  tho 
world,  that  I  was  different  from  every  one  else,  and  better  ton. 
When  I  wns  only  about  nine,  at  homo  one  Sunday  they  asked  mi' 
If  I  d  sny  a  pra.vor,  and  I  did,  before  them  all,  made  it  up  and 
went  on  for  quarter  of  an  hour.  Ixirdl  I  must  have  been  an 
awful  child.  And  outside  the  religious  time  I  was  as  wicked  ns 
I  could  be.  I  used  to  go  down  into  the  kitchen  and  stenl  the  food 
and  I  d  dress  up  -^  a  ghost  to  frighten  Amy  and  I'd  break  mother's 
china.  I  remcmU'r  once,  after  we'd  had  a  aervicc  in  the  drawing- 
room  and  two  girls  had  gone  into  hysterics.  I  stole  down  into  the 
kitchen  in  my  nightdress  to  get  some  jam  and  I  found  one  of  the 
Elders  making  love  to  the  cook.  They  were  both  so  fat  and  he  bed 
his  coat  and  wniitcoat  off  and  he  was  kissing  her  neck.  My  word, 
they  were  frightened  when  they  saw  me  standing  there!  After 
that  I  could  do  what  I  liked  with  the  cook.  ...  We  used  to  have 
prayer  meetings  in  the  drawing-room,  and  sometimes  father  would 
pray  so  hard  that  the  glass  chandelier  would  shake  and  rattle  till 
I  used  to  think  it  would  come  down. 

"  And  the  fumy  thing  was  that  one  minute  I'd  be  pinching  Amy 
who  was  kneeling  next  to  me  and  the  next  I'd  be  shaking  with 
religion  and  seeing  Ood  standing  right  in  front  of  me  by  the  co.'- 
acuttlc.  Such  a  mix-up!  .  .  .  it  was  then  and  so  it  is  now.  Amy 
always  hated  mo.  .She  was  really  religious  and  she  thought  I  was 
a  hypocrite.  But  I  wasn't  altogether.  There  was  something  real 
in  It  and  there  still  is." 
"Didn't  you  go  to  school!"  asked  Maggie. 
"  No,  that  was  the  mistake.  They  never  sent  me.  Father  loved 
me  too  much  and  he  wanted  to  keep  me  always  with  him.  He 
tried  to  teach  me  himself  but  I  never  learnt  anything.  I  always 
knew  I  could  turn  them  round  my  little  finger.  I  always  knew 
he'd  rather  do  anything  than  make  me  unhappy.  Sometimes  we 
had  lovely  times  together,  sitting  in  the  dusk  in  the  front  of  the 
fire.  Do  you  know.  Maggie,  I've  never  changed  in  my  love  for 
father?  I've  changed  in  everything  else,  but  in  that  never.  Yet 
Fve  hurt  him  over  and  over  and  over  again.  I've  done  things.  ..." 
Here  he  broke  off.    Tc  day  ws-  'o  be  happy;  they  must  build  up 


S18 


THE  CAPTIVES 


their  Willi  fuler,  fixer,  fuUr  to  keep  the  world  out    He  would 
think  of  nothing,  nothinc  but  the  prewnt.     Tho  wind  blew  and 
the  hiiivy  drope  of  nin  fell,  onp  end  one  end  one,  ilowW  between 
the  KUili.    He  drew  her  cloie  to  him. 
"  Are  .vou  cold  (  " 
"  No,  Alurtin  dvar." 
"  I  luppuw  we  should  turn  btck." 
"  Yet,  it'«  Kctling  late." 
"  It  will  M'lni  houre  until  to-morrow." 
"  And  to  nif  too." 

They  were  iit  the  end  of  the  Green  Park.  There  was  no  one 
there.  Ihey  kmsid  and  clung  toijether  and  MagKie'»  hand  wna 
worm  in»ide  hi>  coat.  Then  they  turned  buck  and  entered  the  real 
world  once  more.   .    .   . 

"Now  we  must  luivc  our  matinee."  Martin  Bald.  Maggie  could 
not  refuse  and  lienidcs  »li<.  hernelf  wonted  it  bo  bodly.  Also  the 
three  weeks  were  drawinir  to  a  close,  and  olthough  she  did  not 
know  what  was  in  store  for  tbein,  she  felt,  in  some  mysterioua 
way.  that  trouble  was  coming. 
"  Yea.  we'll  hove  our  matinee,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  terrifip  excitement  for  her,  apart  altogether  from  her 
love  for  Morlin.  She  hod,  of  course,  never  been  to  a  theotre.  She 
could  not  imagine  in  the  least  what  it  was  like.  It  so  happened, 
l\y  a  wonderful  chance,  that  a  note  come  from  Katherine  Mark 
asking  her  to  tea.  She  showed  this  to  tho  aunts  and  said  that  ahe 
would  accept  it.  She  wrote  to  Katherine  Mark  and  refused  and 
told  Martin  that  for  that  Wednesday  afternoon  she  was  quite  free 
until  at  least  seven  o'clock.  She  wove  these  deceits  with  itrone 
disgust.  She  hated  the  lies,  and  there  were  many,  many  timea 
when  she  was  on  the  edge  of  confessing  everything  to  the  aunts. 
i)ut  the  thought  of  what  would  follow  that  confession  held  her 
back.    She  could  not  moke  things  border  for  Martin. 

Nevertheless  she  wondered  why  when  she  felt,  in  herself  no 
shame  at  all  at  the  things  that  she  was  doing,  she  should  hove  to 
he  to  cover  those  things  up.  But  everything  in  connection  with 
the  Chopel  seemed  to  lie.-The  place  wos  wrapped  in  intrigue  and 
double-dcoling  How  long  would  it  be  before  she  and  Mortin  were 
out  of  it  oil?" 

She  was  to  meet  him  by  one  of  the  lions  in  Trofalgar  Square, 
bhe  bought  n  golden  chrysanthemum  which  she  stuck  into  the 
belt  of  her  block  dress  and  she  wore  her  coral  necklace.  She 
was  tired  of  black.  She  sometimes  thought  she  would  spend  all 
her  Three  Hundred  Pounda  on  clothes.  .   .   .  To-day   as  soon  as 


PARADISE 


219 


ilio  wu  out  of  the  houK  and  hail  lurucd  tbo  comer  inin  Kinr 
William  Stiwt,  the  ulippod  on  hsr  ring.  Blio  klunnl  it  Mm-  ih 
put  her  glove  on.  He  wm  weitin(;  then-  luiikiiiR  like  u  hoppy 
ni'hoolboy,  that  way  thut  «lw  loved  him  to  liH)k.  Tliut  .low  .r.-pkid 
iimilc  of  hit,  lomi'thinK  that  broke  up  hii  whole  face  into  Reninlity 
and  friendlineta,  how  iho  adored  him  when  In  looked  like  ihnl! 
Ho  wai  wearinit  clothca  of  aome  rough  red-brown  ttulf  and  a  bluek 

knitted  tic 

She  waa  carrying  aomcthing,  a  little  parcel  in  tinsne  paper. 
Sho  prcaaed  it  into  hia  hand  when  they  met.  He  opened  it.  just 
like  a  boy,  cliucklinir,  hia  eye«  ahiniiig,  hi*  finKcr»  Irarinir  the  piip<r 
in  hia  cagerncsa.  Her  present  woa  u  round  locket  of  thin  plain 
gold  and  inaide  waa  the  funnieat  little  black  faded  photograph  of 
Maggie,  her  head  only,  a  wild  unli<ly  hend  of  hair,  a  fut  round 
•choolgirl  face— a  village  anapahot  of  iroggie  taken  in  St.  Dreol'a 
when  ahc  waa  about  fifteen, 

"  I''"."  I  ''"'•"  »''e  •«i«l.  "I  remembere.1  it  the  other  day  and 
I  found  it,  A  travelling  photographer  took  it  one  dnv.  He  came 
to  the  village  and  every  one  waa  taken,  father  and  nil.  It's  very 
bad  but  it  waa  the  only  one." 

"  It'e  wonderful,"  aeid  Uartin,  and  truly  it  u-aa  wonderful.  It 
had  caught  by  a  marvelloua  chance,  in  spite  of  it«  shabby  faded 
Unr'.n-aa,  the  very  aoul  of  Maggie.  Was  it  hri-  hair,  her  untidy 
hair,  or  the  boneaty  of  her  cyCH,  or  tlio  streiiKth  and  trustiness  of 
her  mouth?  But  then  't  waa  to  any  one  who  did  not  know  her 
the  bad  dim  photograph  of  an  untidy  child,  to  any  one  who  did 
know  her  the  very  stamp  and  witncas  of  Maggie  and  all  that  aho 
waa.  Maggie  had  apent  twenty-five  ahillinga  on  the  locket  (she  had 
had  three  pounda  put  away  from  her  allo-vancc  in  her  drawer). 
It  woa  a  very  aimple  locket,  thin  plain  gold  round  and  smooth,  but 
good,  and  it  would  laat. 

"  You  darling."  whiapered  Martin.  "  There  couldn't  have  been 
anything  more  like  you  if  you'd  been  taken  by  the  grandest 
photographer  in  London." 

They  started  off  towards  Shafteabury  Avenue  where  the  theatre 
waa^  and  aa  they  went  a  funny  little  incident  occurred.  They  were 
both  too  happy  to  talk  and  Maggie  was  too  happy  even  to  think. 
Suddenly  she  was  aware  that  some  one  was  coming  towards  her 
whom  she  knew.  She  looked  and  tugged  herself  from  that  world 
of  Martin  and  only  Martin  in  which  she  was  immersed.  It  was 
the  large,  smiling,  rosy-cheeked,  white-haired  clergyman,  Mr. 
Trcnchard.  Yes,  certainly  it  was  ho.  He  had  recognised  her  and 
waa  stopping  to  speak  to  her.    Martin  moved  on  a  littlp  and  stood 


220 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I 


.-.,,1 


waiting  for  her.  She  was  confused  and  embarrassed  but  pleased 
too  because  he  seemed  glad  to  see  her.  He  looked  the  very  picture 
of  a  well-dressed,  kindly,  genial  friend  who  had  known  her  all  his 
life.  He  was  wearing  a  beautifully  shining  top-hat  and  his  stiff 
white  collar  gleamed.  Yes,  he  was  glad  to  see  her  and  he  said  so. 
He  remembered  her  name.  "  Miss  Cardinal,"  he  called  her.  How 
tad  she  been?  What  bad  she  been  doing?  Had  she  seen  Mrs. 
Mark !  He  was  staying  with  his  sister  at  Brown's  Hotel  in  Some- 
where— she  didn't  catch  the  name  of  the  street.  His  sister  would 
be  so  glad  if  she  would  come  and  see  them  one  day.  Would  she 
comei  He  wouldn't  tie  her  down,  but  she  had  only  to  write  and 
Bay  she  was  coming.  .   .   . 

He  too!;  her  hand  and  held  it  for  a  moment  and  looked  in  her 
eyes  with  the  kindliest  friendliest  regard.  He  vim  glad  to  have 
seen  her.    He  should  tell  his  sister.  .   .   . 

He  was  gone  and  Maggie  really  could  not  be  sure  what  she  had 
Baid.  Something  very  silly  she  could  be  certain.  Stupid  the 
pleasure  that  his  few  words  had  given  her,  but  she  felt  once 
again,  as  she  had  felt  in  Katherine  Mark's  drawing-room,  the  con- 
tact with  that  other  world,  that  safe,  happy,  comfortable,  assured 
world  in  which  everything  was  exactly  what  it  seemed.  She  was 
glad  that  he  liked  her  and  that  his  sister  liked  her.  Then  she 
could  not  be  so  wild  and  odd  and  uncivilised  as  she  often  was 
afrr.id  that  she  was.  She  rejoined  Martin  with  a  little  added  glow 
in  her  cheeks. 

"  Who  was  that  ? "  Martin  asked  her  rather  sharply. 

She  told  him. 

"  One  of  those  humbugging  parsons,"  he  said.  "  He  stood  over 
you  as  though  he'd  like  to  eat  you." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  he's  not  a  humbug,"  she  answered. 

"  You'd  be  taken  in  by  anybody,"  he  told  her. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shouldn't,"  she  said.    "  Now  forget  him." 

And  they  did.  By  the  time  they  had  reached  Piccadilly  Circus 
they  were  once  more  deep,  deep  in  one  another.  They  were  back 
in  their  dark  and  gleaming  wood. 

The  Lyric  Theatre  was  their  destination.  Maggie  drew  a  breath 
as  they  stepped  into  the  hall  where  there  stood  two  large  stout 
commissionaires  in  blue  uniforms,  gold  buttons,  and  white  gloves. 
People  pushed  past  them  and  hurried  down  the  stairs  on  either  side 
as  though  a  theatre  were  a  Nothing.  Maggie  stood  there  fingering 
her  gloves  and  feeling  lonely.  The  oil  painting  of  a  beautiful  lady 
with  a  row  of  shining  teeth  faced  her.  There  were  also  some 
palms  and  a  hole  in  the  wall  with  a  man  behind  it. 


PARADISE 


221 


Soon  they  too  passed  down  the  stairs,  curta'ns  were  drawn  back, 
and  Maggie  was  sitting,  quite  suddenly,  >■  n  i'lv,;  desert  of  gold 
and  red  plush,  with  emptiness  on  every  Jg  of  it  .v.''  r  hungry- 
looking  crowd  of  people  behind  a  woode  i  iiinition  sti  uig  at  her 
in  such  a  way  that  she  felt  as  though  sh  h  ul  no  clotV  s  on.  She 
gave  a  hurried  glance  at  these  people  anu  tL'..'.H  i-ound  blushing. 

"Why  don't  they  sit  with  us?"  she  whispered  to  Martin. 

"  They're  the  Pit  and  we're  the  Stalls,"  he  whispered  to  her,  but 
that  comforted  her  very  little. 

"Won't  people  come  and  sit  where  we  are?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh  yes ;  we're  early,"  he  told  her. 

Soon  she  was  more  composed  and  happier.  She  sat  ver>-  close 
to  Martin,  her  knee  against  his  and  his  hand  near  to  hcra,  just 
touching  the  outside  of  her  palm.  Her  ring  sparkled  and  the  three 
little  pearls  smiled  at  her.  As  he  breathed  she  breathed  too,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  their  bodies  rose  and  fell  as  one  body.  With- 
out looking  directly  at  him,  which  would,  she  knew,  embarrass 
him  before  all  those  hungry  people  behind  her,  she  could  out  of 
the  corner  of  her  eye  see  the  ruddy  brown  of  his  cheek  and  the 
hard  thick  curve  of  his  shoulder.  She  was  his,  she  belonged  to  no 
one  else  in  the  world,  she  was  his  utterly.  Utterly.  Ever  so 
swiftly  and  gently  her  hand  brushed  for  an  instant  over  his;  he 
responded,  crooking  his  little  finger  for  a  moment  inside  hers.  She 
smiled;  she  turned  round  and  looked  at  the  people  triumphantly, 
she  felt  a  deep  contented  rest  in  her  heart,  rich  and  full,  proud  and 
arrogant,  the  mother,  the  lover,  the  sister,  the  child,  everything  to 
him  she  was.  .   .   . 

People  came  in,  the  theatre  filled,  and  a  hum  of  talk  arose,  then 
the  orchestra  began  to  tune,  and  soon  music  was  playing,  and 
Maggie  would  have  loved  to  listen  but  the  people  must  chatter. 

When  suddenly  the  lights  went  down  the  only  thing  of  which 
she  was  conscious  was  that  Martin's  hand  had  suddenly  seized  hers 
rojghly,  sharply,  and  was  crushing  it,  pressing  the  ring  into  the 
flesh  so  that  it  hurt.    Her  first  excited  wondering  thought  then 


"He  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more  only  as  a  friend. — ^There's 
the  other  now  ..."  and  a  strange  shyness,  timidity,  and  triumph 
overwhelmed  her  so  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  and  her  body 
trembling. 

But  as  the  play  continued  she  must  listen.  It  was  her  very 
first  play  and  soon  it  was  thrilling  to  her  so  that  she  forgot, 
for  a  time,  even  Martin.  Or  rather  Martin  was  mingled  with  it, 
absorbed  in  it,  part  of  it,  and  she  was  there  too  sharing  with  him 


222 


THE  CAPTIVES 


t 


11 


the  very  action  of  the  story.  It  was  a  very  old-fashioned  play 
about  a  little  Charity  girl  who  was  brought  up  by  a  kindly 
middle-aged  gentleman  who  cared  for  nothing  but  books.  He 
brought  her  up  ou  his  own  plan  with  a  r'^w  to  marrying  hor  after- 
wards. But  meanwliile,  of  course,  she  saw  n  handsome  young  sol- 
dier who  was  young  like  herself,  and  she  was  naturally  bored  with 
the  studious  gentleman,  ilaggie  shared  all  the  feelings  of  the 
Charity  girl.  Had  she  been  brought  up.  say  by  a  man  like  Mr. 
Trenchard  and  then  hod  met  Martin,  why,  of  course,  she  could 
have  gone  only  one  way. 

The  soldier  was  not  like  Martin,  being  slim  and  curled  and 
Veautiful,  nor  was  the  studious  gentleman  like  Mr.  Trenchard, 
'jeing  thin  and  tall  with  a  face  like  a  monk  and  a  beautiful  voice. 

But  the  girl  was  like  Maggie,  prettier  of  course,  and  with  artful 
ways,  but  untidy  a  little  and  uot  very  well  educated.  At  the  first 
interval,  when  the  lights,  were  up  and  the  band  was  playing  and 
the  people  walking.  Martin  whispered: 

"Do  you  like  it,  Maggie?" 

"  I  love  it,"  she  answered. 

And  then  they  just  sat  there,  without  another  word  between 
them,  pressed  close  together. 

A  little  song  ran  through  the  play— one  of  Bums's  most  famous 
songs,  although  Maggie,  who  had  never  read  anything,  did  not 
know  that.    The  verses  were : 

O  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June: 

0  my  luve's  like  the  melodic 
That's  sweetly  played  in  tune! 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass. 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I: 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry: 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear. 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun; 

1  will  luve  thee  still,  ray  dear. 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luve, 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


PARADISE 


223 


First  the  handsome  soldier  sang  this  to  the  Charity  girl,  and 
then  because  it  was  a  sentimental  tune,  it  was  always  turning  up 
through  the  play,  and  if  one  of  the  characters  were  not  singing  it 
the  orchestra  was  quietly  playing  it.  Maggie  loved  it;  she  was 
not  sentimental  but  she  was  simple,  and  the  tune  seemed  at  once 
to  belong  to  herself  and  to  Martin  by  natural  right. 

As  the  story  developed  it  became  more  unreal  and  Maggie's 
unerring  knowledge  of  the  difference  between  sense  and  nonsense 
refused  to  credit  the  tall  handsome  villainness  who  confronted  the 
Charity  girl  at  the  ball.  The  Charity  girl  had  no  right  to  be  at 
the  ball  and  people  stood  about  in  unnatural  groups  and  pretended 
not  to  listen  to  the  loud  development  of  the  plot  and  no  one 
seemed  to  use  any  of  their  faculties.  Then  at  the  end,  when  tho 
middle-aged  gentleman  nobly  surrendered  his  Charity  girl  to  tho 
handsome  soldier,  the  little  tune  came  back  again  and  all  was 
well. 

They  came  out  of  the  theatre  into  lights  and  shadows  and  mists 
—cabs  and  omnibuses  and  crowds  of  people.  .  .  .  Maggie  clung 
to  Martin's  arm.  It  seemed  to  her,  dazzled  for  an  instant,  that  a 
great  arc  of  white  piercing  light  cut  the  black  street  and  that  in 
the  centre  of  this  arc  a  tree,  painted  green,  stood,  and  round  the 
tree  figures,  dark  shapes,  and  odd  shadows  danced.  She  shaded 
her  eyes  with  her  hand.  The  long  shining  line  of  Shaftesbury 
Avenue  ran  out,  from  her  feet,  into  thick  clusters  of  silver  lights. 
The  tree  had  vanished  and  now  there  were  policemen  and  ladies 
in  hats  and  strange  mysterious  houses.  She  caught  above  it  all, 
between  the  roofs,  the  pale  flat  river  of  the  evening  sky  and  in 
this  river  stars  like  golden  buttons  floated.  The  moon  was  there 
too,  a  round  amber  coin  with  the  laughing  face  stamped  upon  it. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked  Martin. 

"Half -past  five,"  he  said.  "How  early  the  moon  rises.  It's 
only  climbing  now.    See  the  chimney's  tossing  it  about." 

"  I  must  get  home." 

"No,  no."  He  held  her  arm  fiercely.  " You  must  come  to  tea. 
That's  part  of  the  programme.  We  have  plenty  of  time  before 
seven  o'clock." 

She  knew  that  she  ought  to  return.  Something  seemed  to  tell 
her,  as  she  stood  there,  that  now  was  the  moment  to  break  this 
off.  But  when  his  hand  was  on  her  arm,  when  he  was  so  close  to 
her,  she  could  not  leave  him.  She  would  have  one  hour  more.  . 
He  took  her  across  the  street,  down  into  darkness,  up  into  light. 
Then  they  went  into  a  shop,  up  some  stairs,  and  were  suddenly  in 
a  little  room  with  a  table  with  a  cloth,  a  window  looking  out  into 


224 


THE  CAPTIVES 


the  lamp-lit  square,  cherry-coloured  curtains  and  gay  hunting  pic- 
tures on  the  walls.    Martin  pushed  a  bell  in  the  wall  and  a  stout 
waiter,  perspiring,  smiling,  a  napkin  in  bis  band,  came  to  the  door. 
"Tea,"  said  Martin,  and  he  vanished. 

"  It's  all  right,"  ho  said,  drawing  her  to  a  creaking  wicker  arm- 
chair near  the  empty  fireplace.  "  No  one  will  interrupt  us.  They 
know  me  here.  I  ordered  the  room  yesterday."  Tea  came,  but 
she  could  not  eat  anything.  In  some  strange  way  that  moment  in 
the  theatre  when  he  had  pressed  her  hand  had  altered  everything. 
She  recognised  in  herself  a  new  Maggie;  she  was  excited  with  a 
thick  burning  excitement,  she  was  almost  sleepy  with  the  strain 
of  it  and  her  checks  were  hot,  but  her  throat  icy  cold.  When  she 
told  him  that  she  wasr't  hungry,  he  said,  "  I'm  not  either."  Then 
he  added,  not  looking  at  her,  "That  fellow  won't  be  back  for 
an  hour." 

He  came  and  stood  by  her  looking  down  on  her.  He  bent  for- 
ward over  the  chair  and  put  his  hands  under  her  chin  and  pressed 
her  face  up  towards  his.    But  he  did  not  kiss  her. 

Then  he  took  her  hands  and  pulled  her  gently  out  of  the  chair, 
sat  down  on  it  himself,  then,  still  very  tenderly,  put  his  arms 
round  her  and  drew  her  down  to  him.  She  lay  back  against  him, 
her  cheek  against  his,  his  arms  tight  around  her. 

He  whispered  to  her  again  and  again,  "  Darling.  .  .  .  Darling. 
.    .   .  Darling." 

She  felt  now  so  terribly  part  of  him  that  she  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  her  own  identity.  His  hands,  softly,  tenderly  passed  up 
and  down  her  body,  stroking  her  hair,  her  cheeks,  her  arms.  Her 
mouth  was  against  his  cheek  and  she  was  utterly  motionless,  shiver- 
ing a  little  sometimes  and  once  her  hand  moved  up  and  caught 
his  and  then  moved  away  again. 

At  last,  as  it  seemed  from  an  infinite  distance,  his  voice  came 
to  her,  speaking  to  her. 

" Haggle,  darling,"  he  said,  "don't  go  back  till  late  to-night 
You  can  say  that  those  people  asked  you  to  stay  to  dinner.  Your 
aunts  can't  do  anything.  Nothing  can  happen.  Stay  with  me 
here  and  then  later  we'll  go  and  have  dinner  at  a  little  place  I 
know  .  .  .  and  then  come  back  here  .  .  .  come  back  here  .  .  . 
like  this.  Maggie,  darling,  say  you  will.  You  must.  We  mayn't 
have  another  chance  for  so  long.  You're  coming  to  me  after- 
wards. What  does  it  matter,  a  week  or  two  earlier?  What  does 
it  matter,  Maggie?  Stay  here.  Let  us  love  one  another  and  have 
something  to  think  about  ...  to  remember  ...  to  remember 
...  to  remember.  ..." 


PARADISE 


225 


do.  She  could  rot  say  anything  because  she  was  in  a  dream  too 
She  could  only  feel  his  hand  stroking  her  face 
He  seemed  to  talte  her  silence  for  consent.     He  suddenly  kissed 

She^Th^dT"'"''  '".'■?''  '"■^'^  ""•"  '*  >""'■    Tiiarioke  her 
She  pushed  his  arms  back  and  sprang  up.     Uer  hands  were 
trembling.    She  shook  her  head. 
"  No,  Martin.  ...   No,  not  now." 

"Why  not?"    He  looked  at  her  angrily  from  the  chair. 
His  face  «-s  altered,  he  was  frowning,  his  eyes  were  dark. 

tierself.    With  shaking  hands  she  patted  her  dress. 
"Why  not!"  he  asked  again. 

cve'r^^in^g""     ^  '"°"'''"'  ""  "™"'     ^'"  ""^^     ^'  """'d  ^P"" 
her^ye,.'"''"'"-"    ^^^  ™»  *""»"' "i<H  her.    He  wouldn't  meet 

el^^'ntTU^"  f^'S*''"*  '^\^°"^'^  ''^-   '«""  fl^J-d  her 
fLf     ni,   T  ,  °  '°™'y  •    •    •  ^"''°-  ■    •    •  Don't  look   like 

that.    Oh,  I  love  you  too  much ! " 

She  broke  off.     With  a  sudden  movement  she  fell  at  his  feet- 

thel^Zs'bT- 1  ^^  ''-'  ^T"^'  *°  her  face,  she  kissed  tl?m: 
tlie  palms  of  his  hands  over  and  over  again 

"^11  r;rht'"  b"'T'  '.n  ^"/h^"^''  «''»•  *^««ly,  her  mouth 
All  right     he  said.     "Only  I  feel  somehow.  ...  I  feel  as 
though  our  time  had  come  to  an  end  " 

loledin' VerTa'c^."    ""'  '""'^'  "''™  """  ''"^''''  "^'^  ''-  '>-'>«■ 

am!  whffever"?  Z^^'"  *■""  ^''"'"  '"^^  "■"  '"™^'-  -»'"-«  ^ 
"I  swear,"  she  answered,  gazing  into  his  eyes,  "that  III  love 

you  always,  whatever  you  are.  whatever  you  do  " 

Then  she  went  away,  leaving  him  by  the  table,  staring  after  her. 
In  the  street  she  saw  that  her  chrysanthemum  was  in  pieces  torn 

fnto  hef'^f  ri  '"''■"l"'-  ^""^  ''■"'-''  °«  'he  ri'g'and  put  ™ 
did  in/.^l.     •  *^t"-  T^  fo'^todings  in  her  heart,  as  though  she 

home  ^'^^  *'""'  '"  °™''  '^  t"™*^  t°™«i8 

leff'^lZ'  "w  t..^?  T*  *™*  ""  "'"•  That  night  she  was 
noLng  V  *"  '*  *■•:;  '"v".""^'  '^«"''''"'  her  darkly,  said 
nothing.    The  aunts  also  said  nothin<r,  aitting  all  the  evening  under 


226 


THE  CAPTIVES 


the  green  shade  of  the  lamp  in  the  drawing-room,  Aunt  Anne  read- 
ing a  pamphlet,  Aunt  Elizabeth  sewing.  Maggie  pretended  to 
read  but  she  saw  no  words.  She  saw  only  the  green  lamp  like  a 
dreadful  bird  suspended  there  and  Aunt  Anne's  chiselled  sanctity. 
Over  and  over  again  she  reasoned  with  herself.  There  was  no 
cause  for  panic.  Nothing  had  happened  to  change  things — and 
yet — and  yet  everything  was  changed. 

}i]verything  had  been  changed  from  that  moment  when  Martin 
pressed  her  hand  in  the  theatre.  Everything!  .  .  .  Danger  now 
of  every  sort.  She  could  be  brave,  she  could  meet  anything  if  she 
were  only  sure  of  Martin.  But  he  too  wemed  strange  to  her.  She 
remembered  his  dark  look,  his  frown  when  she  had  refused  him. 
Ob,  this  loneliness,  this  helplessness.  If  she  could  be  with  him, 
beside  him,  i;hi.  would  fear  nothing. 

That  night,  the  first  faint  suspicion  of  jealousy,  of  doubt,  an 
agonising  dart  of  pain  at  the  knowledge  of  what  it  would  mean 
to  her  now  if  he  left  her,  stirred  in  her  breast.  This  room  was 
stifling.  She  got  up  from  her  chair,  went  to  the  window,  looked 
out  between  the  thick  curtains  at  the  dark  deserted  street. 

"What  is  it,  Maggie!" 

"  Nothing,  Aunt  Anne." 

"  Tou're  very  restless,  dear." 

"  It's  close.    May  I  open  the  door? " 

"  A  little,  dear." 

She  opened  the  door  and  then  sat  there  hearing  the  Armed  Men 
sway  ever  so  slightly,  tap,  tap,  against  the  wall  in  the  passage. 

That  night  she  scarcely  slept  at  all,  only  tumbling  into  sudden 
nightmare  dreams  when  something  had  her  by  the  throat  and 
Martin  was  not  there. 

In  the  morning  as  soon  as  she  could  escape  she  hurried  to  Picca- 
dilly. Martin  was  waiting  for  her.  When  she  saw  him  she  realised 
at  once  that  her  good  time  was  indeed  over.  His  face  was  white 
and  strained.  He  scarcely  looked  at  her  but  stared  anxiously  up 
and  down  the  street. 

"  What  is  it? "  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"  Look  here,  Maggie,"  he  began,  still  scarcely  looking  at  her.  "  I 
must  get  back  at  once.  I  only  came  to  tell  you  that  we  must  drop 
our  meetings  for  the  next  day  or  two — until  it's  blown  over." 

"  Until  what's  blown  over,"  she  asked  him. 

"It's  my  father.  I  don't  know  what  exactly  has  happened. 
They'll  none  of  them  iell  me,  damn  them.  It's  Caroline  Smith. 
She's  been  talking  to  Amy  about  you  and  me.  I  know  that  be- 
cause of  what  Amy  said  about  you  at  breakfast  this  morning." 


PARADISE 


227 


"What  did  she  say?" 

"  She  wouldn't  speaK  out.  She  hinted.  But  she  admitted  that 
Oaroline  Smith  had  told  her  something.  But  she  doesn't  matter 
Nothing  matters  except  father.  He  mustn't  be  excited  just  now 
His  heart  s  so  bad.    Any  little  thing.  ...  We  must  wait." 

She  saw  that  he  was  scarcely  realising  her  at  all.  She'  choked 
down  all  questions  that  concerned  themselves.  She  simply  agreed 
nodding  her  head.  ' 

He  did  look  at  b?'  then,  smiling  as  he  used  to  do. 

"It's  awfully  hard  o.:  us.  It  won't  be  for  more  than  a  day  or 
two.  But  I  must  put  thii^gs  right  at  home  or  it  will  be  all  up 
I  don  t  care  for  the  others,  of  course,  but  if  anything  happened 
to  father  through  me.  ..."  He  told  her  to  write  to  the  Charing 
Cross  post-office.  He  would  do  the  same.  In  a  day  or  two  it 
would  be  all  right.    He  pressed  her  hand  and  was  gone. 

When  she  looked  about  her  the  street,  seemed  quite  empty 
although  it  was  full  of  people.  She  threw  up  her  head.  She 
wouldn  t  be  beaten  by  anybody  .  .  .  only,  it  was  lonelv  going  back 
to  the  house  and  all  of  them  .   .   .  alone  .   .   .  without  Uartin. 

She  ened  a  little  on  her  way  home.  But  they  were  the  laat 
tears  she  shed. 


CHAPTER  EC 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS 

MAGGIE,  when  she  was  nearly  home,  halted  suddenly.  She 
stopped  as  when  on  the  threshold  of  a  room  that  should  be 
empty  one  sees  waiting  a  stranger.  If  at  the  end  of  all  this  she 
should  lose  Martini  .   .   . 

There  was  the  stranger  who  had  come  to  her  now  and  would 
not  again  depart.  She  recognised  the  sharp  pain,  the  almost  un- 
conscious pulling  back  on  the  sudden  edge  of  a  dim  pit,  as  some- 
thing that  would  always  be  with  her  now— always.  One  knojfs 
that  in  the  second  stage  of  a  great  intimacy  one's  essential  lone- 
liness is  only  redoubled  by  close  companionship.  One  asks  for  so 
much  more,  and  then  more  and  more,  but  that  final  embrace  is 
elusive  and  no  physical  contact  can  surrender  it.  But  she  was 
young  and  did  not  know  that  yet.  All  she  knew  was  that  she 
would  have  to  face  these  immediate  troubles  alone,  that  she  would 
not  see  him  for  perhaps  a  week,  that  she  would  not  know  what 
his  people  at  home  were  doing,  and  that  she  must  not  let  any  of 
these  thoughts  come  up  into  her  brain.  She  must  keep  them  all 
back:  if  she  did  not,  she  would  tumble  into  some  foolish  precipitate 
action. 

When  she  reached  home  she  was  obstinate  and  determined.  At 
once  she  found  that  something  was  the  matter.  During  luncheon 
the  two  aunts  sat  like  sutues  (Aunt  Elizabeth  a  dumpy  and  squat 
one).  Aunt  Anne's  aloofness  was  coloured  now  with  a  very  human 
anger.  Uaggie  realised  with  surprise  that  she  had  never  aeen  her 
angry  before.  She  had  been  indignant,  disapproving,  superior,  for- 
bidding, but  never  angry.  The  eyes  were  hard  now,  not  with  re- 
ligious reserve  but  simply  with  bad  temper.  The  mist  of  anger 
dimmed  the  room,  it  was  in  the  potatoes  and  the  cold  dry  mutton, 
specially  was  it  in  the  hard  pallid  knobs  of  cheese.  And  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  although  she  was  frightened  by  her  sister's  anger  on 
this  occasion,  shared  in  it  She  pursed  her  lips  at  Maggie  and 
moved  her  fat,  podgy  hand  as  though  she  would  like  to  smack 
Maggie's  cheeks. 

Maggie  was  frightened— really  frightened.    The  line  of  bold  in- 
dependence was  all  very  well,  but  now  risks  were  attached  to  it 
If  she  swiftly  tossed  her  head  and  told  her  aunts  that  she  would 
228 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  229 

rA!?ipUaVM^i„t,'^i^^*'  rJ'  "'  "^•"""  «"<'  th»t  would 
rfiowed  that  6he  had  travelled  through  O^e  C  .  lU  of  h/      r' 

the*  next  diCtweet   and  thVt'  1"""  'TI'""  ""'^  "''°"«'' 
heraelf  to  regain" uleTy'atho^e  ""       *"*"  ''"  '"'"  "" 

4lr!:S  "^^' ---^"  ^«  --e  l„o.  . 
when  Au"r^iza*^trw^.h''''''"''"i''-  ""^  "  ""  -H-ri^d 

pluck  there      She  coidolwlTv''T- "'"=■'  ''"'  """^  ''^  "° 
inside    herself     W«^  "       f  *'"''"'  ""^  '""^  »»"  again 

^s.de^  herself.     Had    any    „„e    been    ever    ao    hopelessly    aZe 

she  "'efn^'i?  "1:27^^^^  ^""'  ^nne.    She  «aid  it  a,  though 

were  hard  and  active        '*^""^"'  ''"'<''  *"«  °o  lonRer  thin  but 
;|  What  have  T  done,  aunt?"  asked  Maggie 

evcJ^;i„'/L";oV"^'o^h";ve''no^     ^"''"  """  '  *"-  ''o- 
in  any  way.  but  we  have  tr^^.o  1"""^'  -t  especially  easy  for  „. 

have  ..paid  us  with  iZatH^al"  ^"  ''"'  "*""  ^°"  ^^''"^-    ^'"^ 

"  LatZ'lh  *"■*  ,"°*r  '''•'  ■""'•''"f-    She  went  on : 
Hber^r  radv'^d  til  T  T"*""'^^  ''"*'  «'""  ^™  ^-Plete 

lieved  U,at  you  wet  honest "  '''™  """^  '"""^^  •>"'  ^  ^ 

« I  am  honest  I "  Maggie  b,oke  in.    Her  aunt  went  on  • 
You  have  used  the  liberty  w,  gave  you  duril^-^l^.^e  weeks  to 


230  THE  CAPTIVES 

make  younelf  the  talk  of  our  friend..  You  have  been  neetinir 
Mr.  Martin  WarUk  secretly  cviry  iluy.  You  hove  been  alone  with 
him  in  the  Park  un.l  ut  the  theatre.  I  know  that  you  are  young 
and  very  innornnt.  Vou  could  not  have  known  that  Martin  War- 
lock 18  a  muii  with  whom  no  sir!  who  respect,  herwlf  would  bo 

seen  alone " 

"That  iH  untrue!"  MaRRie  flamed  out. 

"  — and,'  went  on  Auiil  Anne,  "  we  would  have  forgiven  that. 
It  19  your  deceit  to  ourselves  that  we  cannot  forget.  Day  after 
day  you  were  meetinjr  h,ni  aii.l  preteniliiiK  that  you  went  to  your 
other  friends.  I  am  disapiioiiitcii  in  you.  biilerly  disappointed  I 
saw  from  the  first  that  you  .ii<l  not  mean  to  uare  for  u.,  now,  as 

well,  you  have  disunieed  us " 

MaKKie  bcKan:  "yes,  I  have  been  seeing  Martin.  I  didn't 
think  It  wroiiK-l   <lou't  now.     I   .lidut  tell  you  becauso  I  was 

afraid  that  you  v inid  stop  mc "' 

"Then  that  shows  that  you  knew  it  .vp  ■  vironK." 
"No.  Aunt  Anne— only  that  you  would  think  it  was  wrong     I 
can  only  go  by  myself,  by  what  I  feci  h  wrong  1  moan.     I've 
always  had  'o,  all  my  life.     It  would  have  been  no  good  doing 

anything  else  ni  home,  because  fother " 

She  pulled  herself  up.  She  was  not  going  to  defend  herself  or 
aBk  for  pity.    She  said,  speaking  finally: 

"Yes,  I  have  been  out  with  Martin  every  day.  I  went  to  the 
tueatre  with  him,  too,  and  also  had  tea  with  him," 

Maggie  could  see  Aunt  Anne's  onger  rising  higher  and  higher 
like  water  in  a  tube.  Her  voice  was  hard  when  she  spoke  again— 
she  pronounced  judgment: 

"  We  see  now  that  you  were  right  when  you  said  that  you  had 
better  leave  us.  You  are  free  to  go  as  soon  as  you  wish.  You 
have,  of  course,  your  money,  but  if  you  care  to  stay  with  us  until 
■  you  have  found  some  work  you  must  now  obey  our  rules.  While 
you  remain  with  us  you  must  not  go  out  unless  my  sister  or  I 
accompany  .vou."  Then  her  voice  changed,  softening  a  little.  She 
suddenly  raised  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  appeal :  "  Oh,  Maggie, 
Maggie,  turn  to  God.  You  have  rebelled  against  Him.  You  have 
refused  to  listen  to  His  voice.  The  end  of  that  can  be  only  misery. 
He  loves,  but  He  alsc.  judges.  Even  now,  within  a  day,  a  Week  He 
may  come  with  judgment.  Turn  to  Illm,  Moggie,  not  because  I 
tell  yon  but  because  of  the  Truth.  Pray  with  me  now  that  He 
may  help  you  and  give  you  strength." 

Because  she  felt  that  she  had  indeed  treated  them  badly  ar ' 
must  do  just  now  what  they  wished,  she  knelt  down  on  the  dra 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  231 

.he  Evil  Ono.    She  ha.  iLr^XU    nd  i.  weSj'  'Crf  """^ 

loving  c.k  >:^:t^Tt:-::l:v^^  'Th'""^'  'r-  ^"^ 

Manirw"°'lf;jr„""""'  """"■"  ""  «'°'  yo"   -"   not  ,eo 

;P^=;:rr?— —^.-"''-"e^.H^.- 
^^Tho,  looked  ot  one  another.    Aunt  Anne  was  like  a  ™„n  i,.,t 

-Sat"t  d?nltZ™::  u:-^""'  """■""  -^  ■"-*  -  °- 

door'h^dToYledl"'""'  '"  •"  ""■     ^*  """  "'  «•■<"■«''  «  heavy  iron 
Aunt  Anne  passed  Ifawe  and  loft  the  room. 

en,m;';<t";he''f^tT:,iefheeir'™w    h'  f "  'T'""^^  "■"  '"^ 

:n-!^t::::d™^^t^!:t:Hi  i:^ -'^"™  ---- 

Meanwhile,  how  they  must  all  have  been  tilkin.-'    Sh„  t  u 
.         f«r  her.     They  were  turning  it  over  in  their  hands. 


">  THE  CAPTIVES 

•oilin*  it.  Lughing  «  it.  •necrinc  .t  it.  And  wh*t  were  thej 
doing  to  Martin?  At  that  thought  A,  iprang  up  and  began  hur- 
riedly  to  wallc  about.  Oh,  tliey  muat  leave  him  alone  I  What  were 
they  laying  to  him!  They  were  telling  him  how  rldiculoui  it  wai 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  a  plain,  ugly  girl!  And  he  J  Wai 
he  defending  herJ  At  the  ludden  iuggiition  of  hii  di.loyalty 
^dignation  fought  in  her  with  tome  .trnnge,  horrible  auapicion. 
Yea.  It  would  come  back,  that  thought.  He  waa  weak.  He  had 
told  her  that  he  waa.  Ho  waa  weak.  She  knew  that  be  waa.  She 
would  not  he  to  hcmclf.  And  then  at  the  thought  of  hia  weak- 
neaa  the  maternal  love  in  her  that  waa  the  atrongett  inatinct  in 
her  character  flooded  her  body  and  aoul,  lo  that  she  did  not  mind 
If  he  were  weak,  but  only  wanted  to  defend  him,  to  protect 
him.  ... 

Strangely,  ahe  felt  more  sure  of  him  at  that  moment  when  ahe 
was  conacioua  of  hia  weakneaa  than  ahe  had  been  when  ahe  asaerted 
hiB  atrength.  Beneath  that  weakness  he  would  be  true  to  her  be- 
cause he  needed  her.  No  one  else  could  give  him  what  aho  did- 
he  had  said  so  again  and  again.  And  it  would  alwaya  be  ao.  He 
would  have  to  come  back  to  her  however  often  he  denied  her. 

She  felt  happier  then.  She  could  face  them  all.  She  had  been 
bad  to  her  aunta,  too.  She  had  done  them  harm,  and  they  had  been 
nothing  but  goodneaa  to  her.  Apart  from  leaving  Martin  ahe  would 
do  all,  those  next  weeks,  to  please  them. 

She  went  up  to  her  bedroom,  and  when  ahe  reached  it  ahe 
realised,  with  a  little  pang  of  fright,  that  ahe  waa  a  priaoner.  No 
more  meetings  outside  Hatchards.  no  more  teas,  no  more  walks. 
.  .  .  She  looked  out  of  the  window  down  into  the  street.  It  was 
a  long  way  down  and  the  figures  walking  were  puppets,  not  human 
at  all.  But  the  thing  to  be  thought  of  now  waa  the  queetion  of 
letters  How  waa  she  to  get  them  to  the  Strand  Office  and  receive 
from  them  Martin'a  letters  in  return?  After  long,  anxious  thought 
there  seemed  to  be  only  one  way.  There  waa  a  kitchen-maid,  Jane 
who  came  every  morning  to  the  house,  did  odd  joba  in  the  kitchen, 
and  went  home  again  in  the  evening.  Maggie  had  seen  the  girl 
•bout  the  house  a  number  of  times,  had  noticed  her  for  her  rebel- 
lious, independent  look,  and  had  felt  some  sympathy  with  her  be- 
cause she  was  under  the  harsh  dominion  of  Martha. 

Maggie  had  spoken  to  her  once  or  twice  and  the  girl  had  seemed 
grateful,  smiling  in  a  kind  of  dark,  tearful  way  under  her  untidy 
hair.  Moggie  believed  that  she  would  help  her;  of  course  the  girl 
would  get  into  trouble  were  ahe  discovered,  and  dismissal  would 
certainly  follow,  but  it  waa  clear  enough  that  she  would  not  in  any 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  gg, 

Jh.  „t  down  ,t  one,  .nd  w,o,„  ber  fl„,  U,„„.  .i„i„,  „„  t„ 

would  notr«.  you  and  .0  1  .m  .  „"        "1'  """"'""  """^  ""'  ' 

i.ou« .,  ,11  LI.  I  am  wi^  „;' x'jr  .rr  ' '""''  ''"^  ""■ 

iend  the  letter,  by  the  kitchen  m.rd  h™  '  I,  "°  f'"*  '"  "^  »"'' 
.nd  .he  will  fetch  your.  It™  Z  po.trnTine  "  n^""  T''^  ■'"■^• 
to  tell  the  po.t  people  that  .heT.  tHave  hen.  Urlin  7  "  "."'" 
and  wr  te  every  dav  even  if  !>'.  -»i     .1      u         *••""'■  dear,  try 

i.  dreadful  .0  Wut  u^a  day  "atd  I  thfnro?'  ""'•,^,'"'"«  " 
.nd  wonder  how  you  are  DoS  ^  „„h.  1^°'^  ""  ,*'"'  •'""> 
one  thing  I  couldn't  bTar.  If  yo^re  n„t'^'^""!'%;'''''?  "■" 
roa.on  to  be  unhappy  about  me^  I'm  ve^  cW*i  iL^H  %"? 
know  that  you  ore  all  right.    You  arrall  Xh,   .      I         .^  x^' 

troubea  him,  then  tell  hi^  rt..  .J-  ,.      *"'"■'''>'  "f  me 

him  now  .nd  h„;  .rlt  h^''LX*%ut'S'''?f,°'  r"""f  "•" 
your  feelin»  fc  '"PPy.    But  don't  let  them  chango 

InS  I  am  fu.T    •,  ,       ■'"''  ""  **"?'  t^"  ""^  "*  'hem  do 

angry  Cu.eL  ..  •  u,...:^' tC'bu.'-th^''^  "".•■  '"  "'' 
to  tell  me  who  I  .hafl  love  havrthe^?'  V    ""\'"«"'  "-v  right 

Tour  loving. 
She  put  it  in  «,  envelope,  wrote  the  addrew  a.  he  had  told  her, 


234 


THE  CAPTIVES 


and  then  set  out  to  find  Jane.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon now  and  the  house,  on  this  winter's  day,  was  dark  and 
dim. 

'rbe  gas  was  always  badly  lit  in  the  passages,  spitting  and 
mustering  like  an  imprisoned  animal.  The  bouse  was  so  quiet 
when  Maggie  camo  out  on  to  the  stairs  that  there  seemed  to  be  no 
one  in  it.  She  found  her  way  down  into  the  hall  and  saw  Thomas 
the  cat  there,  moving  like  a  black  ghost  along  the  floor.  He  came 
up  to  her  and  rubbed  himself  in  bis  sinister,  Mysterious  way 
against  her  dress.  When  she  turned  towards  the  green  baize  door 
that  led  towards  the  kitchen  regions  he  stood  back  from  her,  stole 
on  to  the  lorrer  steps  of  the  staircase  and  watched  her  with  steady, 
unblinking  eyes.  She  pushed  the  door  and  went  through  into 
the  cold  passage  that  smelt  of  cheese  and  bacon  and  damp  earth. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  on*  about,  and  then  suddenly  the  pantry 
door  opened  and  Jane  came  out.  She  stopped  when  she  saw 
Maggie. 

"  Where's  Martha  ? "  asked  Maggie  in  a  low  voice. 

The  whisper  seemed  to  tell  Jane  at  once  that  this  was  to  be  a 
confidential  matter.  She  jerked  with  a  dirty  thumb  in  the  direction 
of  the  kitchen. 

"  In  there.  Cooking  the  dinner,"  she  whispered  back.  She  was 
untidy,  there  were  streaks  of  black  on  her  face,  but  her  eyes  looked 
up  at  Maggie  with  a  friendly,  roguish  glance,  as  though  they  had 
already  something  in  common.  Maggie  saw  that  she  had  no  time 
to  lose.    She  came  close  to  her. 

"  Jane,"  she  said,  "  I'm  in  trouble.  It's  only  you  who  can  help 
me.  Here's  a  letter  that  I  want  posted — just  in  the  ordinary  way. 
Can  you  do  that  for  me! " 

Jane,  suddenly  smiling,  nodded  her  head. 

"  And  there's  something  else,"  Maggie  went  on.  "  To-morrow 
morning,  before  you  come  here,  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  Strand 
post-office — you  know  the  one  opposite  the  station — and  ask  for  a 
letter  addressed  to  me.  I've  written  on  a  piece  of  paper  here  that 
you're  to  be  given  any  letters  of  mine.  Give  it  to  me  somehow 
when  no  one's  looking.    Do  you  understand  1 " 

Jane  nodded  her  head.  Maggie  gave  her  the  note  and  also  half- 
a-crown,  but  Jane  pushed  back  the  money. 

"  I  don't  want  no  money,"  she  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  You're 
the  only  one  here  decent  to  me." 

At  that  moment  the  kitchen  door  opened  and  Martha  appeared. 
When  she  saw  Jane  she  came  up  to  her  and  said :  "  Now  then, 
idling  again !    What  about  the  potatoes  i " 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  235 

She  looked  at  Maggie  with  her  usual  surly  suspicion. 

"  I  come  down  for  a  candle,"  Maggie  said,  "  for  my  room.  Will 
you  give  me  one.  please  ? " 

Jane  had  vanished. 

Martin,  meanwhile,  after  Maggie  left  him,  had  returned  home  in 
no  happy  state.  There  had  leapt  upon  him  again  that  mood  of 
sullen  impatient  rebellion  that  he  knew  so  well— a  mood  that  really 
was  like  a  possession,  so  that,  struggle  as  he  might,  he  seemed 
always  in  the  grip  of  some  iron-fingered  menacing  figure. 

It  was  possession  in  a  sense  that  to  many  normal,  happy  people 
in  this  world  is  so  utterly  unknown  that  they  can  only  scornfully 
name  it  weakness  and  so  pass  on  their  way.  But  those  human 
beings  who  have  suffered  from  it  do  in  very  truth  feel  as  though 
they  had  been  caught  up  into  another  world,  a  world  of  slavery 
moral  galley-driving  with  a  master  high  above  them,  driving  them 
with  a  lash  that  their  chained  limbs  may  not  resist.  Such  men 
if  they  try  to  explain  that  torment,  can  often  point  to  the  very 
day  and  even  hour  of  their  sudden  slavery;  at  such  a  tick  of  the 
clock  the  clouds  gather,  the  very  houses  and  street  are  weighted 
with  a  cold  malignity,  thoughts,  desires,  impulses  are  all  checked 
perverted,  driven  and  counter-driven  by  a  mysterious  force.  Let 
no  man  who  hcs  not  known  such  hours  and  the  terror  of  such  a 
dominion  utter  judgment  upon  his  neighbour. 

To  Martin  the  threat  of  this  conflict  with  his  father  over  Maggie 
was  the  one  crisis  that  he  had  wished  to  avoid.  But  his  character 
which  was  naturally  easy  and  friendly  and  unsuspicious,  had  con- 
fused him.  Those  three  weeks  with  Ifaggie  had  been  so  happy,  so 
free  from  all  morbidity  and  complication,  that  he  had  forgotten 
the  world  outside.  For  a  moment  when  Maggie  had  told  him  that 
she  had  given  her  note  to  Caroline  he  had  been  afraid,  hut  he  had 
been  lulled  as  the  days  passed  and  nothing  interfered  with  their 
security.  Now  he  was  suddenly  plunged  into  the  middle  of  a  con- 
fusion that  was  all  the  more  complicated  because  he  could  not  tell 
what  his  mother  and  his  sister  were  thinking.  He  knew  that  Amy 
had  disliked  him  ever  since  his  return,  and  that  that  dislike  had 
been  changed  into  something  fiercer  since  his  declared  opposition 
to  Thurston.  His  mother  he  simply  did  not  understand  at  all. 
8he  spoke  to  him  still  with  the  same  affection  and  tenderness,  but 
behind  the  words  he  felt  a  hard  purpose  and  a  mysterious  aloof- 
ness. 

She  was  not  like  his  mother  at  all;  it  was  as  though  some  spy 
Had  been  introduced  into  the  house  in  his  mother's  clothing. 
But  for  them  he  did  not  care;  it  was  his  father  of  whom  he  must 


286  THE  CAPTIVES 

think.  Here,  too,  there  was  a  mystery  from  which  he  was  delib- 
erately kept.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  they  were  all  expecting 
some  crisis;  as  the  days  advanced  he  could  feel  that  the  excite- 
ment increased.  He  knew  that  his  father  had  declared  that  he 
had  visions  and  that  there  was  to  be  a  revelation  very  shortly ;  but 
of  these  visions  and  this  revelation  he  heard  only  indirectly  from 
others.  His  father  said  nothing  to  him  of  these  things,  and  at 
the  ordinary  Chapel  services  on  Sunday  there  was  no  allusion  to 
them.  He  knew  that  the  Inside  Saints  had  a  society  and  rules  of 
their  own  inside  the  larger  body,  and  from  that  inner  society  he 
was  quite  definitely  .excluded.  Of  that  exclusion  he  would  have 
been  only  too  glad  had  it  not  been  for  his  father,  but  now  when 
he  saw  him  growing  from  day  to  day  more  haggard  and  worn,  more 
aloof  from  all  human  society,  when  he  saw  him  wrapped  further 
and  further  into  some  strange  and  as  it  seemed  tc  him  insane  ab- 
sorption, he  was  determined  to  fight  his  way  into  the  heart  of  it 
His  growing  intimacy  with  Maggie  had  relieved  him,  for  a  mo- 
ment, of  the  intensity  of  this  other  anxiety.  Now  suddenly  he 
was  flung  back  into  the  very  thick  of  it.  His  earlier  plan  of  forc- 
ing his  father  out  of  all  this  network  of  chicanery  and  charla- 
tanism now  returned.  He  felt  that  if  he  could  only  seize  his 
father  and  forcibly  abduct  him  and  take  him  away  from  Amy  and 
Thurston  and  the  rest,  and  all  the  associations  of  the  Chapel, 
he  might  cure  him  and  lead  him  back  to  health  and  happiness 
again. 

And  yet  he  did  not  know.  He  had  not  himself  escaped  from  it 
all  by  leaving  it,  and  then  that  undermining  bewildering  suspicion 
that  perhaps  after  all  there  was  something  in  all  of  this,  that  it 
was  not  only  charlatanism,  confused  and  disconcerted  him.  He 
was  like  a  man  who  hears  sounds  and  faint  cries  behind  a  thick 
wall,  and  there  are  no  doors  and  windows,  and  the  bricks  are  too 
stout  to  be  torn  apart. 

He  had  been  behind  that  wall  all  his  life.  .   .   . 

Amy's  allusion  to  Maggie  in  the  morning  had  been  very  slight, 
but  had  shown  quite  clearly  that  she  had  heard  all,  and  probably 
more,  than  the  truth.  When  he  returned  that  morning  he  found 
his  mother  alone,  knitting  a  pink  woollen  comforter,  her  gold 
spectacles  on  the  end  of  her  nose,  her  fresh  lace  cap  crisp  and 
dainty  on  her  white  hair — the  very  picture  of  the  dearest  old  lady 
in  the  world. 

"  Mother,"  he  began  at  once,  "  what  did  Amy  mean  this  morning 
about  myself  and  Maggie  Cardinal?" 

"Maggie  who,  deari"  hia  mother  asked. 


THE  INSroE  SAINTS 


237 


_   "Ittggie  Cardinal— the  Cardinal  niece,  you  fanw,"  he  said 
impatiently, 

"Did  she  say  anything?    I  don't  remember." 

"Tea,  mother.     You  remember  perfectly  well.     She  said  that 
they  were  all  talking  about  me  and  Maggie." 

Did  she  ? "  The  old  lady  slowly  counted  her  stitches.  «  Well 
dear,  I  shouldn't  worry  about  what  they  all  say— whoever  'they' 
may  be." 

«  1  ?''■   I  t°"''   ™"   ^'""   '*"'"   ''*   «n™e'«d   contemptuously, 

a  though  all  the  same  I'm  not  going  to  have  Amy  running  that 
girl  down.  She's  been  against  her  from  the  first.  What  I  want 
to  know  is  has  Amy  been  to  father  with  this?  Because  if  she  has 
Tm  going  to  stop  it.  I'm  not  going  to  have  her  bothering  father 
with  bits  of  gossip  that  she's  picked  up  by  listening  behind  othe 
pooplea'  key-holes." 

Affl^,  meanwhile,  had  come  in  and  heard  this  last  eentenca 

"  Thank  you,  Martin,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  turned  to  her  with  fury.    "What  did  you  mean  at  break- 

?    i.     ,..,     *''•  "^^  "•"*  yo"  "'^  «''°"»  n>y"eli  and  Maggie 
Cardinal?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  contempt  but  no  very  active  hostility. 
I  was  simply  telling  you  something  that  I  thought  you  ought 
to  know,''  she  said.  "It  is  what  everybody  is  saying— that  vou 
Mid  she  have  been  meeting  every  day  for  weeks,  sitting  in  'the 
Park  after  dark  together,  going  to  the  theatre.  People  draw  their 
own  conclusions,  I  suppose." 

'•  How  much  have  you  told  father  of  this?"  he  demanded 

"I  don't  know  at  all  what  father  has  heard,"  she  answered. 

"You've  been  that  girl's  enemy  since  the  first  moment  that  she 
came  here,"  he  continued,  growing  angrier  and  angrier  at  her 
quiet  indifference.  "  Now  you're  trying  to  damage  her  character" 
On  the  contrary,"  she  answe-»^,  «I  told  you  because  I  thought 
you  ought  to  know  what  people  were  saying.  The  girl  doesn't 
matter  to  me  one  way  or  anotheiv-but  Pm  aorry  for  her  if  she 
thinAa  she  cares  for  you.    That  won't  bring  her  much  happiness." 

Then  suddenly  her  impassivity  had  a  strange  effect  upon  him 
He  could  not  answer  her.  He  left  them  both  and  went  up  to  his 
room. 

As  soon  as  he  had  closed  the  door  of  his  bedroom  he  knew  that 
his  bad  time  was  come  upon  him.  It  was  a  physical  as  well  as 
a  spiritual  dominion.  The  room  visibly  darkened  before  his  eyes, 
his  bram  worked  as  it  wonld  in  dreams  suggesting  its  own  thoughts 
«nd  wishes  and  intention!.    A  daric  shadow  hung  over  him,  hands 


238 


THE  CAPTIVES 


vere  placed  upon  his  eyes,  only  one  thought  came  before  him  again 
and  again  and  again.  "  You  know,  you  have  long  known,  that  you 
are  doomed  to  make  miserable  everything  that  you  touch,  to  ruin 
every  one  with  whom  you  come  in  contact.  That  is  your  fate,  and 
you  can  no  more  escape  from  it  than  you  can  escape  from  your 
body  I" 

How  many  hours  of  this  kind  he  bad  known  in  Spain,  in  France, 
in  South  America.  Often  at  the  very  moment  when  he  had 
thought  that  he  was  at  last  settling  down  to  some  decent  stead.f 
plan  of  life  he  would  be  jerked  from  his  purpose,  some  delhy  or 
failure  would  frustrate  him,  and  there  would  follow  the  voice  in 
bis  ear  and  the  hands  on  his  eyes. 

It  was  indeed  as  though  he  had  been  pledged  to  something  in 
his  early  life,  and  because  Bo  had  broken  from  that  pledge  had 
been  pursued  ever  since    .  ,   . 

He  stripped  to  the  \  5  st  and  bathef"  in  cold  water;  even  then 
it  seemed  to  him  that  s  flesh  was  heavy  and  dull  and  yellow, 
that  he  was  growing  obese  and  out  of  all  condition.  He  put  on  a 
clean  shirt  and  collar,  sat  down  on  his  bed  and  tried  to  think  the 
thing  out.  To  whomsoever  he  had  done  harm  in  the  past  he  would 
now  spare  Maggie  and  his  father.  He  was  surprised  at  the  rush 
of  tenderness  that  came  over  him  at  the  thought  of  Haggle;  he 
sat  there  for  some  time  thinking  over  every  incident  of  the  last 
three  weeks;  that,  at  least,  had  been  a  good  decent  time,  and  no 
one  could  ever  take  it  away  from  them  again.  lie  looked  at  her 
picture  in  the  locket  and  realised,  as  be  looked  at  it,  a  link  with 
her  that  he  had  never  felt  with  any  woman  before.  "All  the 
same,"  he  thought,  "  I  should  go  away.  She'd  mind  it  at  first,  but 
not  half  as  much  as  she'd  mind  me  later  on  when  she  saw  what 
kind  of  a  chap  I  really  was.  She'd  be  unhappy  for  a  bit,  but  she'd 
soon  meet  some  one  else.  She's  never  seen  a  man  yet  except  me. 
She'd  soon  forget  me.    She'a  such  a  kid." 

Nevertheless  when  he  thought  of  beginning  that  old  wandering 
life  again  he  shrank  back.  He  had  hated  it — Oh!  how  he'd  hated 
it !  And  he  didn't  want  to  leave  Maggie.  He  was  in  reality  be- 
ginning to  believe  that  with  her  he  might  pull  himself  right  out 
of  this  morass  of  weakness  and  indecision  in  which  he  had  been 
wallowing  for  years.  And  yet  what  sort  of  a  life  could  he  offer 
her!  He  did  not  believe  that  he  would  ever  now  be  able  to  find 
this  other  woman  whom  he  had  married,  and  until  he  had  found 
her  and  divorced  her  Maggie's  position  would  be  impossible.  She, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  world,  could  disregard  it,  but  he  knew, 
knew  that  daily,  hourly  recurrence  of  slights  and  insults  and  dis- 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS  239 

appointments,  knew  what  that  life  could  make  after  a  time  of 
women  in  such  a  position;  even  though  she  did  not  mind  he  would 
mind  for  her  and  would  reproach  himself  continually. 

No,  it  was  impossible.  He  must  go  away  secretly,  without  telling 
her.  .  .  .  Then,  at  thai,  he  was  pulled  up  again  by  the  thought 
of  his  father.  He  could  net  leave  him  until  this  crisis,  whatever 
It  might  be,  was  over.  A  very  little  thing  now  might  kill  him. 
and  at  the  thought  of  that  possibility  he  jumped  up  from  his  bed 
and  swore  that  that  catastrophe  at  least  must  be  prevented.  His 
father  must  live  and  be  happy  and  strong  again,  and  he,  Martin 
must  see  to  it. 

That  was  his  charge  ano  his  sacred  duty  above  all  else. 

Strong  in  this  thought  he  went  down  to  his  father's  room.  He 
knocked  on  the  door.  There  was  no  answer,  and  he  went  in. 
The  room  was  in  a  mess  of  untidiness.  His  father  was  walking 
up  and  down,  staring  in  front  of  him,  talking  to  himself. 

At  the  sound  of  the  door  he  turned,  saw  Martin  and  smiled  the 
old  trusting  smile  of  a  child,  that  had  been,  during  his  time 
abroad,  Martin's  clearest  memory  of  him. 

"  Oh,  is  that  you  i    Come  in." 

Martin  came  forward  and  his  father  put  his  arm  round  his  neck 
as  though  for  support. 

"I'm  tired— horribly  tired."  Martin  took  him  to  the  shabby 
broken  arm-chair  and  made  him  sit  down.  Himself  sat  in  his  old 
place  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  his  hand  against  his  father's  neck. 

"Father,  come  away— just  for  a  week— with  me.  We'll  go  right 
off  into  the  country  to  Olebeshire  or  somewhere,  quite  alone.  We 
won't  see  a  soul.  We'll  just  walk  and  eat  and  sleep.  And  then 
you'll  come  back  to  your  work  here  another  man." 

"  No,  Martin.    I  can't  yet.    Not  just  now." 

"Why  not,  father?" 

"  I  have  work,  work  that  can't  be  left." 

"  But  if  you  go  on  like  this  you'll  be  so  that  you  can't  go  on 
any  longer.  You'll  break  down.  You  know  what  the  doctor  said 
about  your  heart.    You  aren't  taking  any  care  at  all." 

"Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps  ...  but  for  a  week  or  two  I  must 
just  go  on,  preparing  .   .   .  many  things  .   .   .  Martin." 

He  suddenly  looked  up  at  his  son,  putting  his  hand  on  his 
knee. 

;' Yes,  father." 

"You're  being  good  now,  aren't  you!" 

"Good,  father?" 

"  Yes.  .  .   .  Not  doing  anything  you  or  I'd  be  ashamed  of.    I 


*-d 


THE  CAPTIVES 


know  in  the  past  ...  but  that's  been  forgotten,  that'»  oTer. 
Only  now,  just  now,  it's  terribly  important  for  us  both  that  you 
should  be  good  ...  like  you  used  to  be  .  .  .  when  you  were 
a  boy." 

"Father,  what  have  people  been  saying  to  you  about  mel" 

"  Nothing— nothing.  Only  I  think  about  you  so  much.  I  pray 
about  you  all  the  time.  Soon,  as  you  say,  we'll  go  away  together 
.  .  .  only  now,  just  now,  I  want  you  with  me  here,  strong  by  my 
side.    I  want  your  help." 

Martin  took  his  father's  hand,  felt  how  dry  and  hot  and  feverish 
it  was. 

"  I'll  be  with  you,"  he  said.  ''  I  promise  that.  Don't  you  listen 
to  what  any  one  says.  I  won't  leave  you."  He  would  like  to  have 
gone  on  and  asked  other  questions,  but  the  old  man  seemed  so 
worn  out  and  exhausted  that  he  was  afraid  of  distressing  him.  so 
he  just  sat  there,  his  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  suddenly  the  white 
head  nodded,  the  beard  sank  over  the  breast  and  huddled  up  in  the 
chair  as  though  life  itself  tad  left  him;  the  old  man  slept. 

During  the  next  four  days  Martin  and  Maggie  corresponded 
through  the  fair  hands  of  Jane.  He  wrote  only  short  letters,  and 
over  them  he  struggled.  He  seemed  to  see  Maggie  through  a 
tangled  mist  of  persons  and  motives  and  intentions.  He  could  not 
get  at  the  real  Maggie  at  all,  he  could  not  even  get  at  his  real 
feelings  about  her.  He  knew  that  these  letters  were  not  enough 
for  her,  he  could  feel  behind  her  own  a  longing  for  something 
from  him  more  definite,  something  that  would  bring  her  closer  to 
him.  He  was  haunted  by  his  picture  of  her  sitting  in  that  dismal 
house,  a  prisoner,  waiting  for  him,  and  at  last,  at  the  end  of  the 
four  days,  he  felt  that  he  must,  in  some  way  or  other  see  her. 
Then  she  herself  proposed  a  way. 

"  To-morrow  night  (Friday),"  she  wrote,  "  the  aunts  are  going  to 
a  meeting.  They  won't  return  until  after  eight  o'clock.  During 
most  of  that  time  Martha  will  be  in  the  kitchen  cooking,  and  Jane 
(who  is  staying  late  that  night)  has  promised  to  give  me  a  signal. 
I_  could  run  out  for  quarter  of  an  hour  end  meet  you  somewhere 
close  by  and  risk  getting  back.  Jane  will  bo  ready  to  let  me  in. 
Of  course,  it  may  fail,  but  things  can't  bo  worse  than  they  are. 
...  I  absolutely  forbid  you  to  come  if  you  think  that  this  can 
make  anything  worse  for  you  at  home.  But  I  miui  see  you, 
Martin.  ...  I  feel  to-night  as  though  I  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer  (although  I've  only  had  five  days  of  it  I),  but  I  think  that  if 
I  met  you,  really  yon,  for  only  Sto  minutes,  I  conld  boar  it  then 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS 


241 


I 


for  weeks.    Let  me  know  if  you  aeree  to  thia  •«.)  ,•*  .„     u 
could  meet  about  7.30."  '  ""*  "  "''  "'""«  "• 

The  mere  ♦bought  of  seeing  her  was  wonderful.    He  would  not 
muoh^o'h;:'  "  "•"""  *"^°  *^'"  •'  <=-"  »"-  comftorelt 

He  wrote  back : 

"Yea.    At  the  comer  of  Dundas  Street,  by  the  Pillar  Box  7  <!0  » 

J:.  ':':.Z^^^-  •<•  *^-  ^«^  ««■»  '-f^u^t 

pla'ceVet'sIt'r:  i^hf;  aTmr^h";  ^  ^:erth:re"^'"'n^ 

He  kissed  her  hair  and  her  eyes  and  her  mouth,  holding  her  to 

h.m  as  though  she  would  never  let  him  go,  then  she  drew  awav 
Now  we  must  walk  about  or  some  one  will  see  us."  she  said' 

aS  Clyr«  '™  """""■■    ^"«°'  "■"'  '  '"'  ^  know 'it 
"Yes,"  he  said. 
They  walked  like  ghosts,  in  the  misty  street. 

very^appy/"  ^  "°'   '^''  ""'^-    "^"'^  ^o"  '^'t*"  di-^n't  sound 
"Can  you  hold  on  till  after  the  New  Tear?"   They  were  walking 

hand  in  hand,  her  fingers  curled  in  his  palm  * 

;;j«.    she  said.    « If  you're  happy." 
There  are  troubles  of  course,"  he  said.    •'  But  T  rfnt,'* ,  * 

Amy  and  the  rest.    It's  only  father  that  tatten, '  i  c^n'   TZlll 

how  much  he  knows.    If  I  knew  that  I'd  be  much  happier     wI*U 

«H„w%  ^"«'"«°.^  oatch  in  her  throat  she  asked  him: 

<<  5  J  "  ?^'°'  '^  ""ything  happens  to  him  ? " 

I!J5"*"^'  •   •   •  Oh  Martini    No  I" 
do     I'd'w^''^ ^\uTr  ''■'ow  where  to.    I  don't  know  what  I'd 
tri^^i.,,;"™  ^*  '  ""■'*  •--  -"-  0-  -'one,  always,  for 

''No.    You'd  need  me  more  than  ever." 
You  don't  understand,  Maggie.    I'd  be  impossible  after  that 


242 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"Martin,  listen."  She  caught  his  arm,  looking  up,  trying  to 
■ee  his  face.  "  If  anything  like  that  did  happen  that  would  be 
where  you'd  want  me.  Don't  you  see  that  you  emddn'l  harm  me 
except  by  leaving  me  ? " 

"  You  can  reason  it  as  you  like,  Maggie,  but  I  know  myself.  I 
know  the  impulse  would  be  too  strong — to  go  away  and  hide  my- 
self from  everybody,  I've  felt  it  before^when  I've  done  some- 
thing especially  bad.  It's  something  in  me  that  I've  known  all 
my  life."  Then  he  turned  to  her:  "1  it  it's  all  right.  Nothing 
shall  happen  to  the  old  man.  I'll  see  that  it  doesn't.  We've  only 
got  to  wait  a  fortnight,  then  I'll  get  him  away  for  a  holiday. 
And  once  he's  better  I  c::n  leave  him.  It  will  be  all  right.  It 
ahall." 

Then  he  bent  down  to  her.  "You  know,  Maggie,  I  love  you 
more,  far  more  than  I  ever  thought.  Even  if  I  went  away  you'd 
be  the  only  one  I'd  love.  I  never  dreamt  that  I'd  care  for  any  one 
so  much." 

He  felt  her  tremble  under  his  hand  when  he  said  that. 

She  sighed.  "  Now  I  can  go  back,"  she  said.  "  I'll  say  that  over 
to  myself  again  and  again." 

They  stayed  a  little  longer,  he  put  his  arms  round  her  again 
and  held  her  so  close  to  him  that  she  could  feel  his  heart  throb- 
bing.   Then  when  they  had  kissed  once  more  she  went  away. 

She  returned  safely.  Jane  opened  the  door  for  her,  mysteriously, 
as  though  she  enjoyed  her  share  in  the  conspiracy.  Maggie  sped 
upstairs,  and  now  with  Martin's  words  in  her  ears,  had  enough  to 
stiffen  her  back  for  the  battle. 

The  nsxt  move  in  the  affair  was  on  the  following  afternoon  when 
Maggie,  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  beheld  Caroline  Smith  in  the 
doorway. 

"  She's  got  cheek  enough  for  anything,"  was  Maggie's  first 
thought,  but  she  was  not  aware  of  the  true  magnificence  of  that 
young  woman's  audacity  until  she  found  her  hand  seized  and  her 
cheek  kissed. 

Caroline,  in  fact,  had  greeted  her  with  precisely  her  old  spon- 
taneous enthusiasm. 

"Maggie,  darling,  where  have  you  been  all  these  days — but 
weeks  it  is  indeed  I  You  might  at  least  have  sent  me  just  a  word. 
Life  simply  hasn't  been  the  same  without  you  I  You  pet !  .  .  .  and 
you  look  tired!  Yes,  you  do.  You've  been  overworking  or  some- 
thing, all  because  you  haven't  had  me  to  look  after  you ! " 

Maggie  gravely  withdrew,  and  standing  away  from  the  shining 
elegance  of  her  friend  said: 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS 


248 


"  Caroline — I  want  to  know  something  before  we  go  any  furtlier. 
What  I  want  to  Itnow  is— why  did  you  read  that  note  that  1  aslced 
you  to  give  to  Martin  Warlock?" 

Caroline  stared  in  amaMmcnt.  "My  dear,  what  is  the  matter} 
Arc  you  ill  or  something?  Oh,  you  are.  I  con  sec  you  arc!  You 
poor  darling!    Read  your  note?    What  note,  dear? " 

"  The  note  I  gave  you  a  month  ago— one  evening  when  you  were 
here." 

"A  note  I  A  month  ago.  My  dear  I  As  though  I  could  ever 
remember  what  I  did  a  month  ago  I  Why,  it's  always  all  I  can 
manage  to  remember  what  I  did  yesterday.  Did  you  give  mo  a 
note,  dear  ? " 

Maggie  began  to  be  angry.  «  Of  course  I  did.  You  remember 
perfectly  well.  I  gave  it  to  you  for  Martin  Warlock.  You  let 
him  have  it,  but  meanwhile  you  read  it,  and  not  only  that  but  told 
everybody  else  about  it." 

Caroline's  expression  changed.  She  was  suddenly  sulky.  Her 
face  was  like  that  of  a  spoilt  child. 

"Well,  Maggie  Cardinal,  if  you  call  that  being  a  friend  I  To 
«ay  that  I  would  ever  do  such  a  thing  I " 

"  You  know  you  did  I  "  said  Maggie  quietly. 

"Read  your  letters?  As  though  I'd  want  to!  Why  should  U 
As  though  I  hadn't  something  more  interesting  to  do!  No  thank 
you!  Of  course  you  have  been  getting  yourself  into  a  mess. 
Every  one  knows  that.  That's  why  I  came  here  to-day— to  show 
you  that  I  was  a  real  friend  and  didn't  mind  what  people  said 
about  you!  When  they  were  all  talking  about  you  last  night  and 
saying  the  most  dreadful  things,  ]  defended  you  and  said  it  wasn't 
really  your  fault,  you  couldn't  have  told  what  a  rotten  sort  of  a 
man  Martin  Warlock  was " 

"That's  enough,"  said  Maggie.  "I  don't  want  your  defence, 
thank  you.  You're  mean  and  deceitful  and  untrue.  You  never 
have  been  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  don't  want  ever  to  see  you 
again  I " 

Caroline  Smith  was  horrified.  "Well,  upon  my  word.  Isn't 
that  gratitude?  Here  am  I,  the  only  person  in  this  whole  place 
would  take  any  trouble  with  you!  When  the  others  all  said  that 
.vou  were  plain  and  stupid  and  hadn't  anything  to  say  for  yourself 
I  stuck  to  you.  I  did  all  I  could,  wasting  all  my  time  going  to 
the  dressmaker  with  you  and  trying  to  make  you  look  like  some- 
thing human,  and  this  is  the  way  you  repay  me!  Well,  there's  a 
lesson  for  me!  Many's  the  time  mother's  said  to  me,  'Carry 
youll  just  ruin  yourself  with  that  kind  heart  of  yours,  laying  yorr' 


tu 


THE  CAPTIVES 


•elf  out  for  otb«n  when  you  ought  to  be  MeinB  after  younelf. 
You'ts  got  too  big  ■  heart  for  thia  world.'  Doean't  it  juat  ahow 
one!  And  to  end  it  all  with  accuaing  me  of  reading  your  letteral 
If  you  cbooae  to  ait  in  the  park  after  daric  with  a  man  who  every- 
body knowa " 

"  Either  you're  going  to  leave  thia  room  or  I  am,"  aaid  Maggie. 

"  Thank  you  I "  aaid  Caroline,  toaaing  her  head.  "  I  haven't  the 
alighteat  deaire  to  atay,  I  aasure  you  I  Only  yoa'U  be  aorry  for  thia, 
Maggie  Cardinal,  you  will  indeed!" 

With  a  awish  of  the  ikirta  and  a  violent  banging  of  the  door  ahe 
waa  gone. 

"  The  only  friend  I  had,"  thought  Maggie. 

The  next  development  was  an  announcement  from  Aunt  Anno 
that  ahe  would  like  Maggie  to  accompany  her  to  a  meeting  at  Miss 
Avies'.  Aunt  Anne  did  not  explain  what  kind  of  a  meeting  it 
would  be,  and  Maggie  asked  no  questions.  She  simply  replied  thi<t 
ahe  would  go.  She  had  indeed  by  this  time  a  very  considcroblo 
curiosity  of  her  own  as  to  what  every  one  thought  was  gning  ti) 
happen  in  ten  days'  time.  Perhaps  this  meeting  would  enlighten 
her.    It  did. 

On  arriving  at  Miss  Avies'  gaunt  and  menacing  apartment  aho 
found  herself  in  the  very  stronghold  of  the  Inside  Saints.  It  was 
a  strange  affair,  and  Maggie  was  never  to  see  anything  quite  liko 
it  again.  In  the  first  place.  Miss  Avies'  room  was  not  exactly  the 
place  in  which  you  would  have  expected  to  discover  a  meeting  of 
this  kind. 

She  lived  over  a  house-agent's  in  John  Street,  Adelphi.  Her 
aitting-room  was  low-ceilinged  with  little  diamond-paned  windows. 
The  place  was  let  furnished,  and  the  green  and  red  vases  on 
the  mantelpiece,  the  brass  clock  and  the  bright  yellow  wallpaper 
were  properties  of  the  landlord.  To  the  atmosphere  of  the  placo 
Miss  Avies,  although  she  lived  there  for  a  number  of  years,  had 
contributed  nothing. 

It  had  all  the  desolate  forlomness  of  a  habitation  in  which  no 
human  being  has  dwelt  for  a  very  Ion  time;  there  was  dust  on 
the  mantelpiece,  a  melancholy  sputtet.^g  of  coal  choked  with 
cinders  and  gasping  for  breath  in  the  fireplace,  stuffy  hot  clammi- 
ness beating  about  the  unopened  windows.  Along  the  breadth  of 
the  faded  brown  carpet  some  fifty  cane-bottomed  chairs  were 
pressed  tightly  in  rows  together,  and  in  front  of  the  window,  fac- 
ing tYi  chairs,  was  a  little  wooden  table  with  a  chair  beside  it,  on 
the  table  a  glass  of  water  and  a  Bible. 

When  Maggie  and  her  aunta  entered  the  chairs  were  almoat  all 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS 


245 


occupied  ind  they  were  forced  to  sit  it  the  end  of  the  last  row  but 
one.  The  meeting  haj  npparcntly  not  yet  begun,  and  many  heada 
were  turned  toward*  them  as  they  took  their  places.  Maggin 
fancied  that  the  glances  directed  at  herself  were  angry  and  severe, 
but  that  was  very  possibly  her  imagination.  She  soon  recognisc<l 
people  known  to  her— Miss  Pyncheon,  calm  and  placid;  Mrs. 
Smith,  Caroline's  mother,  very  stout,  hot,  and  self-important; 
Amy  Warlock,  proud  and  aeTerc;  and  Miss  Avies  herself  standing, 
like  a  general  surveying  his  forces,  behind  the  table. 

The  room  waa  draughty  and  close  and  had  a  confused  smell  of 
oil-cloth  and  geraniums,  and  Maggie  knew  'h«*.  soon  she  would 
have  a  headache.  She  fancied  that  already  the  atmosphere  was 
influencing  the  meeting.  From  where  she  sat  ahe  could  sec  a 
succession  of  aide  faces,  and  it  waa  strange  what  a  hungry,  appeal- 
ing look  these  pale  cheeks  and  staring  eyes  had.  Hungry!  Yes, 
that's  what  they  all  were.  She  thought,  fantastically,  for  a  mo- 
mont.  of  poor  Mr.  Magnus's  7r«a<ure  Huntert,  and  she  seemed  ti> 
sec  the  whole  of  this  company  in  a  raft  drifting  in  mid-ocean,  not 
a  sail  in  sight  and  the  last  ship's  biscuit  gone. 

They  were  not,  taken  altogether,  a  very  6ne  collection,  old  maids 
and  young  girls,  many  of  them  apparently  of  the  servant  class, 
one  or  two  sitting  with  open  mouths  and  a  vacancy  of  expression 
that  seemed  to  demand  a  conjurer  with  a  rabbit  and  a  hat.  Some 
faces  were  of  the  true  fanatic  cast,  lit  with  the  glow  of  an  ex- 
pr"tancy  and  a  hope  that  no  rational  experience  had  ever  actunlly 
justified.  One  girl,  whom  Maggie  had  seen  with  Aunt  Anne  nil 
some  occasion,  had  especially  this  prophetic  anticipation  in  the 
whole  pose  of  her  body  as  she  bent  forward  a  little,  her  elbow.i  on 
her  knees,  her  chin  on  her  hands,  gazing  with  wide  burning  eye* 
at  Miss  Aviea.  This  girl,  whom  Maggie  was  never  to  see  ognin 
hung  as  a  picture  in  the  rooms  of  her  mind  for  the  rest  of  her 
life — the  youth,  the  desperate  anxiety  as  of  one  who  throws  her 
last  piece  upon  the  gaming-table,  the  poverty  of  the  shabby  black 
dress,  the  real  physical  austerity  and  asceticism  of  the  white  cheeka 
and  the  thin  arms  and  pale  hands — this  figure  remained  a  symbol 
for  Maggie.  She  used  to  wonder  in  after  years,  when  fortune 
had  carried  her  far  enough  away  from  all  this  world,  what  had 
happened  to  that  girl.    But  she  was  never  to  know. 

There  were  faces,  too,  like  Miss  Pyncheon's,  calm,  contented, 
confident,  old  women  who  had  found  in  their  religion  the  panacea 
of  all  their  troubles.  There  were  faces  like  Mrs.  Smith's,  coarse 
and  vulgar,  out  for  any  sensation  that  might  come  along,  and 
ready  instantly  to  express  their  contempt  if  the  particular  "  trick  " 


246 


THE  CAPTIVES 


that  they  were  expecting  filled  to  coma  off;  other  facet,  igain, 
like  Amy  Warloclc'a,  grimly  act  upon  aecrvt  thoughta  and  purpoaca 
of  their  own,  facea  trained  to  withitand  any  audden  attack  on 
the  cmotiona,  but  ciiRcr,  too,  like  the  reit  for  aome  rerclatiun  that 
waa  to  anawcr  all  queationa  and  aatiify  all  cxpectationa. 

Moggie  wondered,  aa  ahc  looked  about  her,  how  ahc  could  hnvo 
raJH-d  in  her  own  imagination,  around  the  Chapel  and  ita  affnir^, 
ao  formidable  an  atmoaphero  of  terror  and  tyrannic  disciiiline. 
Here  gathered  together  were  a  few  women,  tired,  pale,  many  of 
them  uneducated,  awaiting  like  children  the  opening  of  a  box, 
the  springing  into  flower  of  a  dry  hunk  of  a  aeed,  the  raiting  of  thu 
curtain  on  aome  wonderful  tcene.  Maggie,  at  the  looked  at  them, 
knew  that  they  mutt  bo  ditappointed,  and  her  heart  ached  for 
them  all,  yet,  even  for  Amy  Warlock,  her  declared  enemy.  She 
lost,  aa  abe  tat  there,  for  the  moment  all  tense  of  her  own  pertonal 
history.  She  only  taw  them  all  tired  and  hungry  and  expectant ; 
perhapt,  after  all,  there  was  tomething  behind  it  all — aomcthing 
for  which  they  had  a  right  to  be  aearebing;  even  of  that  the  hod 
not  sure  knowledge — but  the  pathos  and  also  the  bravery  of  their 
acarch  touched  and  moved  her.  She  was  beginning  to  understand 
something  of  the  beauty  that  hovered  like  a  bird  always  just  out 
of  eight  about  the  ugly  walls  of  the  Chapel. 

"Whatever  they  want,  poor  deara,"  she  thought,  "I  do  hope 
they  get  it." 

Mist  Aviet  opened  the  meeting  with  an  extempore  prayer:  thou 
they  all  stood  up  and  sang  a  hymn,  and  their  quavering  voices 
were  thin  and  sharp  and  strained  in  the  stuffy  close-ccilingcil  room. 
The  hymn,  like  all  the  other  Chapel  hymns  that  Maggie  had  heard, 
had  to  do  with  "  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb,"  "  the  sacrifice  of  Blood," 
"  the  Blood  that  heals."    There  was  also  a  refrain : 


And,  when  Tbou  comest.  Lord,  we  pray 
That  Thou  wilt  spare  Thy  sword. 
Or  on  that  grim  and  ghastly  day 
Who  will  escape  the  Lord? 
Who  will  escape  the  Lord  ? 

There  were  many  verses  to  this  hymn,  and  it  had  a  long  ond 
lugubrious  tune,  so  that  Maggie  thought  that  it  would  never  end, 
but  OS  it  proceeded  the  words  worked  their  effect  on  the  congre- 
gation, and  at  the  last  there  was  much  emotion  and  several  women 
were  crying. 

Then  they  all  sat  down  again  and  the  meeting  developed  a  very 


THE  INSIDE  SAINTS 


347 


buimHt-lilio  lide.  There  wti  *  (treat  deal  of  dix-uMion  aa  to 
datea,  placea,  appointment*,  and  Maggie  was  amuwd  to  diacovrr 
that  in  thii  part  of  the  proeeedintri  llr«.  Smith  had  a  great  deal 
to  iay,  and  toolc  a  very  loading  place. 

The  gathering  became  like  any  other  auemblage  of  ladien  for 
aome  charitable  or  «ociol  piirpoae,  and  then  v,.-n  the  uanal  di«- 
putea  and  signs  of  temper  and  wounded  pride;  .n  all  those  mat- 
ters Mita  Avies  was  a  most  admirable  and  unflinching  chairman. 

Then  at  last  the  real  moment  come.  Miss  Avies  got  up  to  spenk. 
She  stood  there,  scornful,  superior,  and  yet  witji  somi-  olmost 
fynical  appeal  in  her  eyes  as  though  she  said  to  them :  "  You  poor 
fools!  No  one  knows  bettor  than  I  the  folly  of  your  being  here, 
tin  one  knows  better  than  I  how  far  you  will,  all  of  you.  be  from 
realising  any  of  vour  dreams.  Tricked,  the  lot  of  .you  I— and  yet 
—and  yet— go  on  believing,  expecting,  hoping.  Pray,  pray  that  1 
may  lio  wrong  and  you  may  bo  right." 

What  she  actually-said  was  as  follows:  "This  will  be  our  Inst 
mooting  before  the  end  of  the  year.  What  will  como  to  nil  of  us 
before  wc  all  meet  again  no  one  can  any.  but  this  we  all  know, 
that  we  have,  most  of  us.  been  living  r.ow  for  many  years  in  ex- 
pectation. We  have  been  taught,  by  the  goodness  of  flod,  to  be- 
lieve that  we  must  bo  ready  at  any  moment  to  obey  His  cnll,  and 
that  call  may  come,  in  the  middle  of  our  work,  of  our  prayers, 
of  our  love  for  others,  of  our  pursuit  of  our  own  ambitions,  and 
that  whenever  it  does  come  we  must  be  ready  to  obey  it.  Wo 
have  been  told  by  our  great  and  good  Master,  who  has  been  set 
over  us  for  our  guidance  by  God  Himself,  that  that  cnll  moy  now 
be  very  near.  Whatever  form  it  may  take  we  must  acceiit  it.  give 
up  all  we  have  and  follow  Him.  That  is  understood  by  nil  of  us. 
I  will  not  say  more  now.  This  is  not  the  time  for  any  more  direc- 
tions from  me.  We  must  address  ourselves,  each  one  of  us.  to 
Ood  Himself,  and  ask  Him  to  prepare  us  so  thnt  we  may  bo  as  He 
would  have  us  on  the  day  of  His  coming.  I  suggest  now  before  we 
part  that  we  share  together  in  a  few  minutes  of  private  prayer." 
They  all  rose,  and  Maggie,  before  she  knelt  down,  caught  a 
sudden  glimpse  of  the  pale  girl  whom  she  had  noticed  earlier  stand- 
ing for  a  moment  as  though  she  were  about  to  make  some  des- 
perate appeal  to  them  all.  Some  word-i  did  indeed  seem  to  come 
from  her  lips,  but  the  scraping  of  chairs  drowned  every  othor 
sound.  Nevertheless  that  figure  was  there,  the  hands  stretched  out, 
the  ver>'  soul  struggling  through  tin'  eyes  for  expression,  the  body 
^nso.  sacred,  eloquent,  like  the  body  of  some  young  prophetess. 
Then  all  were  on  thtir  knees,  and  Magfc'ie,  too.  her  face  in  her 


348 


THE  CAPTIVES 


hands,  was  praying.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time  in  her  life 
that  she  had  actively,  consciously,  of  her  own  Tolition  prayed. 
The  appeal  formed  itself  as  it  were  without  her  own  agency. 

"  God — if  there  is  a  God — give  me  Martin.  I  care  for  nothing 
else  but  that.  If  You  will  give  me  Martin  for  my  own  always, 
ever,  I  will  believe  in  You.  I  will  worship  You  and  say  prayers 
to  You,  and  do  anything  You  tell  me  if  You  give  me  Martin.  Oh 
God  I  I  ought  to  have  him.  He  is  mine.  I  can  do  more  for  him 
than  any  one  else  can — I  can  make  him  happy  and  good.  I  know 
I  can.  God  give  him  to  me  and  I  will  be  your  8lav&  God,  give 
me  Martin — God,  give  me  Martin." 

She  rose,  as  it  were,  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  from  great 
darkness  and  breathlessness  and  exhaustion.  For  a  moment  she 
could  not  see  the  room  nor  any  detail,  but  only  one  pale  face  after 
another,  like  a  pattern  on  a  wall,  hiding  something  from  her. 

She  stood  bewildered  beside  her  aunts,  not  hearing  the  strains 
of  the  last  hymn  nor  the'  quaver  of  Aunt  Anne's  trembling  voice 
beside  her. 

"G^J,  give  me  Martin,"  was  her  last  challenge  in  the  strange 
pale  silence  that  floated  around  her.  Then  suddenly,  as  though  she 
bad  pushed  open  a  door  and  gone  through,  she  was  back  in  the 
world  again,  a  flood  of  sound  was  about  her  ears,  and  in  front  of 
her  the  red  face  of  Mrs.  Smith,  her  mouth  wide  open,  like  tho 
mouth  of  an  eager  fish,  singing  about  "  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb  " 
with  unctuous  satisfaction.  .   .   , 


CHAPTER  X 


THE   PROPHET 

THE  year  1907  had  four  more  days  of  life:  it  crept  to  its  gmva 
through  a  web  and  tangle  of  fog.  It  was  not  one  of  the 
regular  yellow  devils  who  come  and  eat  up  London,  first  this  part, 
and  then  that,  then  disgorge  a  little,  choking  it  all  up  only  to  snap 
at  it  and  swallow  it  down  all  bewildered  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
after.  This  was  a  cobweb  fog  spun,  as  it  might  be,  by  some 
malignant  central  spider  hidden  darkly  in  his  lair.  The  vapour- 
ing-like  filmy  threads  twisted  end  twined  their  way  all  over 
London,  and  for  four  days  and  nights  the  town  was  a  city  of 
gliosts.  Buildings  loomed  dimly  behind  their  masks  of  silver 
tissue,  streets  seemed  unsubstantial,  lavements  had  no  foundation, 
streams  of  water  appeared  to  hang  glittering  in  mid-air,  men  and 
horses  would  suddenly  plunge  into  grey  abysses  ind  vanish  from 
sight,  church-bells  would  ring  peals  high  up  in  air,  and  there  would 
be,  it  seemed,  no  steeple  there  for  them  to  ring  from.  As  the  sun 
behind  the  fog  rose  and  set  so  the  mist  would  catch  gold  end  red 
and  purple  into  the  vapours,  strange  gleams  of  brass  and  silver 
as  though  behind  its  web  armies  daunting  their  colours  were 
marching  through  the  sky;  down  on  the  very  earth  itself  horses 
staggered  and  stumbled  on  the  thin  coating  of  greasy  mud  that 
covered  everything;  men  opened  their  doors  to  look  out  on  to 
the  world,  and  instantly  into  the  passages  there  floated  such  strange 
forms  and  shadows  in  misty  shape  that  it  seemed  as  though  the 
rooms  were  suddenly  invaded  by  a  flock  of  spirits. 

Sometimes  for  half  an  hour  the  fog  lifted  and  bright  blue  sky 
gleamed  like  a  miraculous  lake  suddenly  discovered  in  the  heart 
of  the  boundless  waste,  then  vanished  again.  Suddenly,  with  a 
whisk  of  the  immortal  broom,  the  web  was  torn,  the  spider  slain, 
the  world  clear  once  more — but,  in  the  obscurity  and  dusk,  1907 
had  seen  his  chance  and  vanished. 

Warlock.  long  before  this,  had  lost  consciousness  of  external 
sights  and  sounds.  He  could  not  have  told  any  one  when  it  was 
that  the  two  worlds  had  parted  company.  For  many  many  years 
he  had  been  conscious  of  both  existences,  but  (during  his  youth 
and  middle-age  they  had  seemed  to  mingle  and  go  aioug  together. 
He  had  believed  in  both  equally  and  had  been  a  citizen  of  both. 
Z4» 


250 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Then  gradually,  as  time  passed,  he  had  seemed  to  have  less  and 
less  hold  upon  the  actual  physical  world.  He  saw  it  suddenly  with 
darkened  Tision;  his  wife  and  daughter,  and  indeed  all  human 
beings,  except  in  so  far  as  they  were  souls  to  be  saved  for  the 
Lord,  became  less  and  less  realities.  Only  Martin  was  flesh  and 
blood,  to  be  loved  and  longed  for  and  feared  for  just  as  he  had 
always  been.  All  the  physical  properties  of  life— clothes,  food, 
household  possessions,  money— became  of  less  and  less  importance 
to  him.  Had  Amy  not  watched  orer  him  he  would  have  been  many 
days  without  any  food  at  all,  and  one  day  he  come  into  the  living- 
room  at  breakfast-time  clothed  in  a  towel.  All  this  had  come  upon 
him  with  vastly  increased  power  during  the  last  months.  In 
Chapel,  and  whenever  he  had  work  to  do  in  connection  with  the 
Chapel,  he  was  clear-headed  and  practical,  but  in  things  to  do  with 
this  world  he  was  now  worse  than  a  child. 

He  was  conscious  of  this  increasing  difficulty  to  deal  with  both 
worlds.  It  was  because  one  world — the  world  of  God-  was  opening 
out  before  him  so  widely  and  with  so  varied  and  thrilling  a  beauty 
that  there  was  less  and  less  time  to  be  spared  for  the  drab  realities 
of  physical  things. 

All  his  life  he  had  been  preparing,  and  then  suddenly  thu  call 
had  come.  Shortly  after  Martin's  return  he  had  known  in  Chapel, 
one  evening,  that  God  was  approaching.  It  had  happened  that 
that  day,  owing  to  his  absorption  in  his  work,  he  had  eaten  noth- 
ing, and  there  had  come  to  him,  whilst  praying  to  the  congregation, 
a  sensation  of  faintness  so  strong  that  for  a  moment  he  thought 
he  would  fall  from  his  seat.  Then  it  had  passed,  to  give  way  to  a 
strange,  thrilling  sense  of  expectancy.  It  was  as  though  a  servant 
had  opened  the  door  and  had  announced:  "My  master  is  coming, 

fir "    He  had  felt,  indeed,  as  though  he  had  been  lifted  up, 

in  the  sheet  of  Paul  the  Apostle,  to  meet  his  God.  There  had  been 
the  most  wonderful  sense  of  elevation,  a  clearing  of  light,  a  gentler 
freshness  in  the  air,  a  sudden  sinking  to  remoteness  of  human 
voices  and  mundane  sounds.  From  that  moment  in  the  Chapel  life 
had  been  changed  for  him.  He  never  seemed  to  come  down  again 
from  that  mysterious  elevation.  Human  voices  sounded  far  away 
from  him ;  he  could  be  urged,  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  to 
take  his  food,  and  he  frequently  did  not  recognise  members  of 
his  own  congregation  when  they  came  to  see  him.  He  waited  now, 
waited,  waited,  for  this  visitation  that  was  approaching  him.  He 
could  have  no  doubts  of  it. 

Then  one  night  he  woke  from  a  deep  sleep.  He  was  conscious 
that  his  room  was  filled  with  a  smoky  light;  in  his  heart  was 


THE  PKOPHET 


251 


»uoh  an  ecstasy  that  he  would  have  thought  that  the  joy  would 
kill  him. 

Something  spoke  to  him,  telling  him  to  prepare,  that  he  had 
been  chosen,  and  that  further  aigna  would  come  to  him.  He  fell 
on  his  knees  beside  the  bed  and  remained  there  in  a  trance  until 
daylight.  He  had  heard  the  voice  of  God,  he  had  seen  His  light, 
he  had  been  chosen  as  Hia  servant.  Some  weeks  later  a  second 
visitation  came  to  him,  similar  to  the  first,  but  telling  him  that 
at  the  last  hour  of  the  present  year  God  would  come  in  His  own 
person  to  save  the  world,  and  that  he  must  make  this  known  to  a 
few  chosen  spirits  that  they  might  prepare.  .   .   . 

The  whole  brotherhood  then  was  at  length  justified;  they  alone, 
out  of  all  men  in  the  world,  had  believed  in  the  Second  Coming  of 
the  Lord,  and  so  God  had  chosen  them.  He  had  no  doubt  at  all 
about  his  visions  at  this  time.  They  seemed  to  him  as  real  and 
sure  as  the  daily  traffic  of  the  streets  and  the  monotonous  progress 
of  the  clock. 

Eagerly,  with  the  confident  resolution  of  a  child,  he  told  his 
news  to  the  leaders  of  the  Chapel,  Thurston,  Miss  Avies,  and  one 
or  two  others.  Then  a  special  meeting  of  the  Inside  Saints  was 
called  and,  m  the  simplest  language,  he  described  exactly  what  had 
occurred.  He  did  not  „t  first  perceive  the  effect  that  his  news 
had.  Then,  dimly,  through  the  mist  of  his  prayers  and  ecstasies, 
he  realised  that  his  message  had  created  confusion.  There  was  in 
the  first  place  the  question  as  to  whether  the  whole  congregation 
should  be  told.  He  found  that  he  could  not  decide  about  this,  and 
when  he  left  the  judgment  to  Thurston,  Thurston  told  him  that, 
in  his  opinion,  "  the  less  that  they  knew  about  it  the  better."  It 
was  then  that  the  first  suspicion  came  to  him  as  to  whether  some 
of  the  Saints  "doubted."  He  questioned  Thurston  as  to  the  effect 
of  this  message  upon  the  Saints.  Thurston  explained  to  him  that 
many  of  them  had  been  very  troubled.  They  had  not  expected 
It  to  come  so  soon."  Thurston  explained  that  they  were,  after  all, 
only  poor  human  clay  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  and  to  prepare  for 
a  Second  Coming  in  general,  something  that  might  descend  upon 
the  world,  say,  in  a  hundred  years'  time,  was  very  different  from  a 
Judgment  that  might  be  expected,  definitely,  in  about  three  weeks. 
One  or  two  of  them,  in  fact,  had  left  the  Chapel.  Others  begged 
for  some  clearer  direction:  "Give  it  them  a  bit  more  clearly. 
Master.  Tell  'em  a  few  facts  what  the  Lord  God  looked  line  and 
ow  He  spoke  and  in  what  kind  of  way  He  was  coming.  Sup- 
posing He  wasn't  to  come  after  all.  ..." 
It  was  then  that  the  trouble  that  had  been  smouldering  for  so 


252 


THE  CAPTIVES 


long  between  Thurston  aud  the  Uaater  burst  into  flame.  For  haU 
an  hour  the  Master  lost  Lis  temper  like  an  ordinary  human  being. 
Thurston  said  very  little  but  listened  with  a  quiet  and  sarcastic 
smile.  Then  he  went  away.  Warlock  was  left  in  a  torment  of 
doubt  and  misery.  That  night  he  was  in  his  room,  until  the  dawn, 
on  his  knees,  wrestling  with  God.  He  accused  himself  because, 
during  these  latter  months,  he  had  removed  himself  from  human 
contact  with  his  congregation.  He  had  been  so  intent  upon  God 
that  he  had  forgotten  his  flock.  Now  he  hardly  knew  how  to  ap- 
proach them.  The  thought  of  a  personal  interview  with  the  Miss 
Cardinals,  or  Miss  Pyncheon,  or  Mr.  Smith  filled  him  with  a 
strange  shy  terror.  He  seemed  to  have  nothing  more  to  sai  to 
them,  and  he  blamed  himself  bitterly  because  he  had  been  intent 
upon  his  own  salvation  rather  than  theirs. 

Thurston's  words  sent  him  groping  back  through  the  details  of 
the  visions.  And  there  wefe  no  details.  For  himself  there  had  been 
enough  in  the  light,  the  ecstasy,  the  contact,  but  these  others  who 
had  not  themselves  felt  this,  nor  seen  its  glory,  demanded  more. 

He  began  then,  in  an  agony  of  distress,  to  question  himself  as 
to  whether  he  had  not  dreamt  his  visions.  He  wrestled  with  God, 
beseeching  Him  to  come  again  and  give  him  a  clearer  message! 
Night  after  night  passed  and  he  waited  for  some  further  vision, 
but  nothing  was  granted  him.  Then  he  thought  that  perhaps  he 
himself  was  now  cursed  for  leaving  God.  God  had  come  to  him 
and  revealed  Himself  to  him  in  unmistakable  signs,  and  yet  be 
was  doubting  Him  and  demanding  further  help. 

As  the  weeks  passed  he  perceived  more  and  more  clearly  that 
there  was  every  kind  of  division  and  trouble  in  the  ChapeL  Many 
members  left  and  wrote  to  him  telling  him  why  they  had  done  so. 
In  his  own  household  he  felt  that  Amy  no  longer  gave  him  any 
confidence.  She  attended  to  him  more  carefully  thaa  before, 
watched  over  him  as  though  he  were  a  baby,  but  made  no  allusion 
to  the  services  or  the  Chapel  or  any  meeting.  He  seemed,  as  the 
weeks  passed,  to  be  lonelier  and  lonelier,  and  he  looked  upon  this 
as  punishment  for  his  own  earlier  selfishness.  He  was  pulled  then 
two  ways.  On  the  one  hand  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  would  only 
hear  God's  full  message  if  he  withdrew  further  and  further  from 
the  world,  on  the  other  he  felt  that  he  was  letting  his  followers 
slip  away  from  him  now  at  the  very  moment  when  he  should  be 
closest  to  them,  admitting,  helping,  encouraging.  This  divided  im- 
pulse was  a  torture,  and  as  the  weeks  went  on  he  ate  less  and 
less  and  slept  scarcely  at  all.  He  had  been  for  a  long  time  past 
in  delicate  health  owing  to  the  weakness  of  his  heart,  and  now 


THE  PROPHET 


253 


be  began  to  look  strange  indeed,  with  Lis  bright  gaunt  face  with 
ita  promment  cheek-bones,  his  eyes  straining  to  see  beyond  his 
actual  vision,  his  flowing  white  beard.  His  doctor  a  cheerful 
Mmmonplace  little  man,  a  member  of  the  Chapel,  although  not  a 
Saint,  tried  to  do  his  best  with  him,  but  his  visits  only  led  to 
scenes  of  irritation,  and  Warlock  obeyed  none  of  his  commands. 
After  a  visit  on  the  afternoon  of  Christmas  Eve  he  took  Amy  aside: 
Look  here,  he  said,  "unless  you  keep  a  stricter  eye  or.  jour 
father  than  you  have  been  doing  he'll  be  leaving  you  altogether" 
6>he  looked  up  at  him  with  that  odd  dark  impassivity  that 
seemed  to  remove  her  so  deliberately  from  her  fellow-beings 

"Its  very  well  to  talk  like  that,"  she  said.    "But  how  is  any 
one  to  have  any  control  over  him?    He  listens  to  nothing  that  we 
say,  and  if  we  insist  he's  in  a  frenzy  of  irritation." 
"  Can  your  mother  do  nothing? "  the  doctor  asked. 
'!  Ji"!!'*'" ' "  ^^'  smiled.    "  No,  mother  can  do  nothing." 
Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "any  sudden  shock  will  kill  him— I 
warn  you." 

When  the  fog  came  down  upon  the  city  Warlock  was  already  in 
too  thick  a  fog  of  his  own  to  perceive  it. 

He  was  sure  now  of  nothing.  It  seemed  as  though  all  the  spirits 
of  the  other  world  now  were  taunting  him,  but  he  felt  that  this 
was  the  work  of  the  Devil,  who  wished  to  destroy  his  faith  before 
the  Great  Day  arrived.  He  thought  now  that  the  Devil  was  closely 
pursuing  him,  and  he  seemed  to  hear  first  his  taunting  whisper  and 
then  the  voice  of  God  encouraging  him:  "  Well  done,  my  good  and 
faithful  servant." 

He  had  lost  now  alnost  all  consciousness  of  what  he  really 
expected  to  happen  when  the  Day  arrived,  but  he  was  dimly  aware 
that  if  nothing  happened  at  all  his  whole  influence  with  his 
people  would  be  gone.  Nevertheless  this  did  not  trouble  him  very 
greatly;  the  congregation  of  the  Chapel  seemed  now  dimly  remote. 
1  he  only  human  being  who  was  not  remote  was  Martin-  his  love 
for  his  son  had  not  been  touched  by  his  other  struggles,  it  had 
been  even  intensified.  But  the  love  had  grown  a  terror,  ever  in- 
creasing, lest  Martin  should  leave  him.  He  seemed  to  hear  dimly 
beyond  the  wall  of  the  mysterious  world  into  whose  regions  he  was 
ever  i  jre  deeply  passing,  sentences,  vague,  without  human  agency 
accusing  Martin  of  sins  and  infidelities  and  riotous  living.  Some- 
times he  was  tempted  to  go  further  into  this  and  challenge  Martin'a 
accusers,  but  fear  held  him  back.  Martin  had  been  fgood  son 
since  his  return  to  England,  yes,  he  had,  and  he  bad  forsaken  his 
evu  ways  and  was  going  to  be  with  his  father  now  until  the  end 


2S4 


THE  CAPTIVES 


his  last  refuge  against  loneliness.  Every  one  else  had  left  him  or 
was  leaving  him,  but  Martin  was  there.  Martin  hadn't  deceived 
him,  Martin  was  a  good  boy  ...  a  good  boy  .  .  .  and  then,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  with  Martin's  hand  in  his  own  he  would  pass  off 
into  his  world  of  strange  dreams  and  desperate  prayer  and  hours 
of  waiting,  listening,  straining  for  a  voice.  .   .   . 

During  that  last  night  before  New  Year's  Eve  an  hour  came 
to  him  when  he  seemed  to  be  left  utterly  alone.  Exhausted,  faint, 
dizzy  with  want  of  sleep  and  foci,  he  knelt  before  his  bed;  his 
room  seemed  to  he  filled  with  devils,  taunting  him,  tempting  him, 
bewildering  and  blinding  him.  He  rose  suddenly  in  a  frenzy, 
striking  out,  rushing  about  his  room,  crying  .  .  .  then  at  last, 
exhausted,  creeping  back  to  his  bed,  falling  down  upon  it  and  sink- 
ing into  a  long  dreamless  sleep. 

They  found  him  sleeping  when  they  came  to  call  him  and  they 
left  him.  He  did  not  wake  until  the  early  afternoon:  his  brain 
seemed  clear  and  his  body  so  weak  that  it  was  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  that  he  washed  and  put  on  some  clothes. 

The  room  was  dark  with  the  fog;  lamps  in  the  street  below  ghm- 
mered  uncertainly,  and  voices  and  the  traffic  of  the  street  were 
muffled.  He  opened  his  door  and,  looking  out,  heard  in  the  room 
below  Martin's  voice  raised  excitedly.  Slowly  he  went  down  to 
meet  him. 

Martin  also  had  reached,  on  that  last  day  of  the  year,  the  very 
end  of  his  tether.  During  the  last  ten  days  he  had  been  fighting 
against  every  weakness  to  which  his  character  was  susceptible. 
With  the  New  Year  he  felt  that  everything  would  be  well;  he  could 
draw  a  new  breath  then,  find  work  somewhere  away  from  London, 
have  Maggie  perhaps  with  him,  and  drive  a  way  out  of  all  the 
tangle  of  his  perplexities.  But  even  then  he  did  not  dare  to  face 
the  future  thoroughly.  Would  his  father  let  him  go?  Was  he, 
after  all  his  struggles,  to  give  way  and  ruin  Maggie's  position  and 
future!  Could  he  be  sure,  if  he  took  her  away  with  him,  that  then 
he  would  keep  straight,  and  that  his  old  temptations  of  women  and 
drink  and  general  restlessness  would  be  conquered!  Perhaps. 
There  had  never  been  a  surer  proof  that  his  love  for  Ma^ie  was 
a  real  and  unselfish  love  than  his  hesitation  on  that  wretched  day 
when  he  seemed  utterly  deserted  by  mankind,  when  Maggie  seemed 
the  only  friend  he  had  in  the  world. 

Everything  was  just  out  of  reach,  and  some  perverse  destiny 
prevented  him  from  realising  any  desire  that  had  a  spark  of  hon- 
esty and  decency  in  it 


THE  PROPHET 


255 


It  was  not  wonderful  that  in  the  midst  of  his  loneliness  and 
unhappiness  he  should  have  been  tempted  back  to  the  old  paths 
again,  men,  women,  places  that  for  more  than  three  months  now 
be  had  been  struggling  to  abandon. 

All  that  day  he  struggled  with  temptation.  He  had  not  seen 
Maggie  for  a  week,  and  during  the  last  three  days  he  had  not  heard 
from  her,  the  adventurous  Jane  having  defied  the  aunts  and 
left. 

At  luncheon  he  asked  about  bis  father,  whom  be  had  not  seen 
for  two  days. 

"  Father  had  a  very  bad  night.    He's  asleep  now." 

"  There's  something  on  to-night,  isn't  there  ? "  he  asked. 

"  There's  a  service,"  Amy  answered  shortly. 

"  Father  oughtn't  to  go,"  be  went  on.  "  I  suppose  your  friend 
Thurston  can  manage." 

Amy  looked  at  him.    "  Father's  got  to  go.    It's  very  important." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  you  want  to  kill  father  with  all  your  beastly 
services "  he  broke  in  furiously. 

"  It  won't  be "  Amy  began,  and  then,  as  though  she  did  not 

trust  herself  to  continue,  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "why  on  earth  don't  you  do  something?" 

"  I,  dear? "  she  looked  at  him  placidly.    "  In  what  way? " 

"  They're  killing  father  between  them  with  all  these  services  and 
tlie  rest  of  the  nonsense." 

"  Your  father  doesn't  listen  to  anything  I  say,  dear." 

"  He  ought  to  go  away  for  a  long  rest." 

"  Well,  dear,  perhaps  he  will  soon.  You  know  I  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  Chapel.  That  was  settled  years  ago.  I  wouldn't  inter- 
fere for  a  great  deal." 

Martin  turned  fiercely  upon  her  saying: 

"Mother,  don't  you  care?" 

"Care,  dear?" 

"  Yes,  about  father— his  living  and  getting  well  again  and  being 
happy  as  he  used  to  be.    What's  happened  to  this  place?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  the  strangest  way.  He  suddenly  felt  that 
he'd  never  seen  her  before. 

"  There  are  a  number  of  things,  Martin,  that  you  don't  under- 
stand— a  number  of  things.  You  are  away  from  us  for  years,  you 
come  back  to  us  and  expect  things  to  be  the  same." 

"You  and  Amy,"  he  said,  "both  of  you,  have  kept  me  out  of 
everything  since  I  came  back.    I  believe  you  both  hate  me ! " 

She  got  up  slowly  from  her  seat,  slowly  put  her  spectacles  away 
in  their  case,  rubbed  her  fat  little  hands  together,  then  suddenly 


256 


THE  CAPTIVES 


licked  inquisitively  one  finger  u  an  animil  might  do.  She  ipoke 
to  him  over  her  ahoulder  at  she  went  to  the  door: 

"  Oh  no,  Martin,  you  speak  too  strongly." 

Left  then  to  his  own  devices  he.  at  last,  wandered  out  into  the 
foggy  streets.  After  a  while  he  found  himself  outside  a  public, 
house  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  went  in.  He  asked  the 
stout,  rubicund  young  woman  behind  the  counter  for  a  whisky. 
She  gave  him  one;  he  drank  that,  and  then  another. 

Afterwards  he  had  several  more,  leaning  over  the  bar.  speaking 
to  no  one,  seeing  no  one,  hearing  nothing,  and  scarcely  tasting  the 
drink.  When  he  came  out  into  the  street  again  he  knew  that  he 
was  half  drunk — not  so  drunk  that  he  didn't  know  what  he  was 
doing.  Oh  dear,  no.  lie  could  drink  any  amount  without  feeling 
it.  Nevertheless  he  had  drunk  so  littlr  during  those  Isat  weeks 
that  even  a  drop.  .  .  .  How  foggy  the  streets  were  .  .  .  made 
it  difficult  to  find  your  way  home.  But  he  was  all  right,  he  could 
walk  straight,  he  could  put  his  latch-key  into  the  door  at  one  try, 
he  was  all  right. 

He  was  at  home  again.  He  didn't  stop  to  hang  up  his  hat  and 
coat  but  went  straight  into  the  dining-room,  leaving  the  door  open 
behind  him.  He  saw  that  the  meal  was  still  on  the  table  just  as 
they'd  left  it.    Amy  was  there  too. 

He  saw  her  move  back  when  he  came  in  as  though  she  were 
afraid  to  touch  him. 

"  You're  drunk ! "  she  said. 

"I'm  not.  You're  a  liar.  Amy.  You've  always  been  a  liar  ell 
your  life." 

She  tried  to  pass  him,  but  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  door. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  he  said.  "  We've  got  to  have  this  out.  What 
have  you  been  spreading  scandal  about  me  and  Uaggie  Cardinal 
fori" 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said  again. 

"Tell  me  thai  first.  You've  always  tried  to  do  me  harm. 
Why?" 

"  Because  I  hate  the  sight  of  you,"  she  answered  quickly.  "  As 
you've  asked  me,  you  shall  have  a  truthful  answer.  You've  never 
been  anything  but  a  disgrace  to  us  evi. ,  since  you  were  a  little  boy. 
You  disgraced  us  at  home  and  then  abroad;  now  you've  come  back 
to  disgrace  us  here  again." 

"  That's  a  lie,"  he  repeated.    "  I've  not  disgraced  anybody." 

"  Well,  it  won't  te  very  long  before  you  finish  ruining  that 
wretched  girl.    The  Vest  you  can  do  now  is  to  marry  her." 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  he  said.    "  I'm  married  already." 


THE  PROPHET  257 

S^  did  not  "Mwer  that  but  ittred  at  him  with  .m«.in«it 

T  ^  ".'i."""  T"*"  ""'•  ^  '"»  o"-  "  What  if  I  am  albld  oU 
I  don't  know  what  a  bad  lot  i.  exactly,  but  if  you  mM  that  V, 
lived  with  women  and  been  drunk,  and  loat  job,  b^a"«  I  didn't 

But  /r/'';.'"p  ^^  '^r*'!^  ""  "»  '""■  i''^  true,  of  coite 
But  I  meant  to  live  decent  y  when  I  came  home.  Ye..  I  did.  yTu 
can  .neer  a.  much  a.  you  like.  Why  didn't  you  help  me  J  You°« 
my  »„ter,  aren't  you?  And  now  I  don't  care  what  I  do  You'v^ 
.11  given  me  up     Well,  give  me  up.  and  I'll  just  go  to  b°t.  a.  fa,? 

at  any  rate  the  bit  of  money  I've  got.  You've  kent  me  from  »hl 
only^nt  girl  I've  ever  known,  the'unc  I  could  hat  Zu7Z'^ 

"  Straight  with! "  Amy  broke  in.    " How  were  you  going  to  be 
straight  if  you're  married  already?"  ^ 

turn.    He  wheeled  round  and  saw  his  father  .landing  almost  un 

hke  fipire.  the  .taring  eye.,  the  open  mouth,  the  white  cheeks 
The  old  man  caught  hi.  coat.  "-iceKs. 

"Martin,  what  wa.  that?     What  did  you  .ay?  .   .   .  No,  no 
...  I  can't  bear  that  now.    I  can't  I  can't " 

UnnTteiTr  hi^Llf  '"'  "^  "«  '*'"»'"^-  "■-"'-  '^« 

Martin  half  helped,  half  carried  him  up  to  hi.  bedroom     He 

ili  ,h"°  wk"',  ^.'.'^  '^"'-  ''°'<"°<f  l""  hand.  .aTby  W.  .We 
all  through  the  long  dim  afternoon. 

.i.t.'Z*of  M^i^f  '"J**™'^  7"T'^'  «■*  ^P-  "-d  "i'h  the  a.- 
tn  M^^.  5     ^      "^T^  properly,  had  some  tea,  and  went  down 

It );:  r^  2T  '"'"  '"  '"  ■=•""'•  *''^"  ^""-^-'^  '»»•''>«  "P 

"  w**  Tv*"™  -^^y  ''"''«  «  """■"«•  this  afternoon »» 
„  .Si?'  "'""•    wd  Martin. 

Mt  headVif''^    I  thought-T  thought  .   .   .  I  don't  know 

you?    ?^e,e'rn:^7'"'^%'^°  »  '^  ^^'  "'tin.  haven't 
youf    mere,  no  need  for  me  to  worry,  is  there?" 
None,  father,"  Martin  said. 


268 


THB  CAPTIVES 


After  >  while  Mirtin  Mid: 

"  Fither,  don't  go  to  Chapel  to-night." 

Warlock  nniled. 

"  I  muit  go.    That'i  all  right.  .   .   .  Nothing  to  worry  about." 

For  Kme  while  he  tat  there,  Martin's  hand  in  bia;  Martin  did 
not  know  whether  he  were  asleep  or  not. 

At  about  ten  ho  ate  and  drank.  At  eleven  be  started  with  Amy 
and  Thurston  for  the  ChapeL 


CHAPTER  H 


THE  ciiAmoT  or  nil 

WHEN  Jane,  uolded  by  Aunt  Anne  for  an  untidy  ippearince, 
gave  notice  and  at  once  departed,  Maggie  felt  aa  though  the 
ground  wai  giving  way  under  her  feet. 

A  week  until  the  New  Year,  and  no  opportunity  of  hear- 
ing from  Martin  during  that  time.  Then  ahe  laughed  at  her- 
aelf: 

"  You're  loaing  your  aenae  of  proportion,  my  dear,  over  Ciia. 
Laugh  at  yourtelf.     What'a  a  week}" 

She  did  laugh  at  heraelf,  but  the  bad  not  rery  much  to  baae 
her  laughter  upon.  Martin'a  laat  lettera  had  been  abort  and 
Tery  uneaay.  She  had  already,  in  a  aurpriaing  faahiou  for  one 
ao  young,  acquired  a  very  wise  and  juat  estimate  of  Martin'a 
character. 

"  He'a  only  a  boy,"  she  uaed  to  aay  to  heraelf  and  feel  hia 
elder  by  at  least  twenty  years.  Nevertheless  the  thought  of  his 
struggling  on  there  alone  waa  not  a  happy  one.  She  longed,  even 
though  she  might  not  adviae  him,  to  comfort  him.  She  was  be- 
ginning to  realiae  something  of  her  own  power  over  him  and  to  aee, 
too,  the  Btrange  mixture  of  auperstition  and  self-reproach  and 
aelf-distrust  that  overwhebned  him  when  she  was  not  with  him. 
She  had  indeed  her  own  need  of  etruggle  against  superstition. 
Her  aunta  continued  to  treat  her  with  a  quiet  distant  aererity. 
Aunt  Elizabeth,  ahe  fancied,  would  like  to  have  been  kind  to  her, 
but  she  was  entirely  under  the  influence  of  her  sister,  and  there, 
too,  Maggie  waa  generous  enough  to  see  that  Aunt  Anne  behaved 
aa  she  did  rather  from  a  stem  sense  oi  duty  than  any  real  un- 
kindness.  Aunt  Anne  could  not  feel  unkindly;  she  was  too  far 
removed  from  human  temper  and  discontent  and  weakness.  Never- 
theless she  had  been  deeply  shocked  at  the  revelation  of  Maggie'a 
bad  behaviour,  and  it  waa  a  shock  from  which,  in  all  probabili^ 
ahe  would  never  recover. 

"  Wt'll  never  be  friends  again,"  Maggie  thought,  watching  her 
aunt'a  auatere  composure  from  the  other  side  of  the  dining-table. 
She  waa  aad  at  the  thought  of  that,  remembering  moments — that 
first  visit  to  St.  Dreot's,  the  departure  in  the  cab,  the  night  when 
she  had  sat  at  her  aunt'a  bedside — that  had  given  glimpaea  of  the 
2S» 


260 


THE  CAI'TIVKS 


I- nd  humio  crattura  Aunt  Ann*  might  have  been  h«d  she  nerer 
BMrd  of  the  Intide  Siint*. 

Mtfgie,  during  tbei*  lut  days,  did  eTeiything  that  her  aunU 
told  her.  She  waa  as  good  and  docile  ai  aha  could  be.  But,  obi 
there  were  lome  dreary  houn  aa  the  aat,  alone,  in  that  ituffy  draw- 
inrrooDi,  trying  to  mw,  her  heart  aching  with  lonelineia,  her 
needle  alwaya  doing  the  wrong  thing,  the  cloclc  heavily  ticliing, 
Thomaa  watching  her  from  the  mat  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  the 
family  group  tneering  at  her  from  the  wall-paper. 

It  waa  during  theae  houra  that  auperatitioua  terron  gained  upon 
her.  Could  it  be  poaaible  that  all  thoae  women  whom  ahe  had 
aeen  gathered  together  in  Miaa  Aviet'a  room  really  expected  Ood  to 
come  when  the  clock  atruck  twelve  on  the  laat  night  of  the  year  t  It 
waa  like  aorae  old  atory  of  ghoata  and  witchea  that  her  nunc  uaed  to 
tell  her  when  ahe  was  a  little  girl  at  St.  Dreot'a.  And  yet,  in  that 
dark  dreary  room,  almoat  anything  aeemed  poaaible.  After  all, 
if  there  waa  a  Ood,  why  ahould  He  not,  one  day.  auddenly  appear  I 
And  if  He  wiahed  to  apara  certain  of  Hia  aervanta,  why  ahould 
He  not  prepare  them  first  before  He  came!  There  were  things 
just  aa  strange  in  the  Old  and  New  TesUment.  But  if  He  did 
come,  what  would  His  Coming  be  like?  Would  every  one  be 
burnt  to  death  or  would  they  all  be  summoned  before  some  judg- 
ment and  punished  for  the  wicked  things  they  had  done!  Would 
her  father  perhaps  return  and  give  evidence  against  her!  And 
gmr  Uncle  Mathew,  how  would  he  fare  with  all  his  weaknesses  t 
Her  efforts  at  laughing  at  herself  rescued  her  from  some  of  the 
more  incredible  of  these  pictures.  Nevertheleaa  the  uncertainty  re- 
mained and  only  increased  her  lonelineaa.  Had  Martin  been 
there  in  five  minutes  they  would,  together,  have  chased  all  theaa 
ghosts  away.  But  he  waa  not  there.  And  at  the  thought  of  him 
she  would  have  to  set  her  mouth  very  firmly,  indeed,  to  prevent  her 
hps  from  trembling.  She  took  out  her  ring  and  kissed  it,  and 
looked  at  the  already  tattered  copy  of  the  programme  of  the  play 
to  which  they  had  been,  and  recalled  every  minute  of  their  walks 
together. 

Christmaa  Day  waa  a  very  miserable  affair.  There  were  no 
presents  and  no  festivities.  They  went  to  Chapel  and  Mr.  Thurs- 
ton preached  the  sermon.  Maggie  did,  however,  receive  one  letter. 
It  was  from  Uncle  Mathew.  He  wrote  to  her  from  some  town  in 
the  north.  He  didn't  seem  very  happy,  and  asked  her  whether  she 
could  possibly  lend  him  five  pounds.  Alluding  with  a  character- 
istic vagueness  to  "business  plana  of  the  firat  importance  that 
were  likely  to  mature  very  ahortly." 


CHARIOT  OP  FIBE 


tei 


•ec  tlia. 
When 


,'    1  ,'.v 


".r:i.   that  the  wanted  five  pounds  of  her  money, 
what  the  needed  them. 
.  IT  the  money  at  once  without  a  word— m 
'e  have  given  up  all  control  of  you  ejicept  to 
■  decently  whiltt  you  are  itill  with  ui." 

arrived  it  aeemed  to  penetrate  every  nook    ind 

rorner  of  tii«  nouK.  The  daily  afternoon  walk  that  Mbb.-I.'  u.  k 
with  Aunt  Eliiabcth  was  cancelled  because  of  the  difficii'-.v  ■  t  tiu.l 
ing  one's  way  from  street  to  street  and  "because  son  .  nulf  tmi  i 
might  steal  one's  money  in  the  darkness,"  and  ilui;.,- -  ,»us  u-.l 
sorry.  Those  walks  had  not  been  amusing.  Aunt  Kli:-aUlii  hj,- 
ing  nothing  to  say  and  being  fully  occupied  with  k.-tping  in.  .ye 
on  Maggie,  her  idea  apparently  being  that  the  girl  w"jl  I  siMen'.'y 
(lush  off  to  freedom  and  wickedness  and  be  lost  for  evor.  Mniftti  • 
had  no  such  intention  and  developed  during  these  weeks  n  (lu'ir 
motherly  affection  for  both  the  aunts,  so  lost  they  were  and  Iw  li  I, ,« 
onii  Ignorant  of  the  world  1  "My  dear,"  said  Maggie  to  hci«lf, 
'  you  re  a  bit  of  a  fool  aa  far  as  common-sense  goes,  but  you're 
nothing  to  what  they  are,  poor  dears."  She  tried  to  improve  her- 
wlf  in  every  way  for  their  benefit,  but  her  memory  was  no  better, 
hhe  forgot  all  the  things  that  were,  in  their  eyee,  the  most  im- 
portant—closing doors,  punctuality  for  meals,  neat  stitches,  careful 
putting  away  of  books  and  clothes. 
Once,  during  a  walk,  she  said  to  Aunt  Elizabeth: 
"  I  am  trying.  Aunt  Elixabeth.  Do  you  think  Aunt  Anne  seea 
any  improvement  1 " 
And  all  Aunt  Elizabeth  said  was: 

"  It  was  a  great  shock  to  her,  what  you  did,  Maggie—a  great 
shock  indeed  I" 

When  the  last  day  of  the  year  arrived  Maggie  was  surprised  at 
the  strange  excitement  that  she  felt.  It  was  excitement,  not 
only  because  of  the  dim  mysterious  events  that  the  evening  prom- 
ised, but  also  because  she  was  sure  that  this  day  would  settle  the 
loneliness  of  herself  and  Martin.  After  this  they  would  know 
where  they  stood  and  what  they  must  do.  Old  Warlock  loomed  in 
front  of  her  as  the  very  arbiter  of  her  destiny.  On  his  action 
everything  turned.  Oh!  if  only  after  this  he  were  well  enough  for 
Martin  to  be  happy  and  at  ease  about  him  I  She  was  tempted  to 
hate  him  as  she  thought  of  all  the  trouble  that  hu  had  made  for 
her  Then  her  mind  went  back  to  that  first  day  long  ago  when 
he  hod  spoken  to  her  so  kindly  and  bidden  her  come  and  sw  hira 
as  often  as  she  could.  How  little  she  had  known  then  what  the 
future  held  for  her!    And  now  around  his  tall  mysterious  figure 


362  THE  CAPTIVES 

not  only  her  own  fate  but  that  of  eveiy  one  else  seemed  to  hang. 
Her  aunta,  Amy,  Miss  Pyncheon,  Miu  Avies,  Thurston,  that 
strange  girl  at  the  meeting,  with  them  all  his  destiny  was  in- 
volved and  they  with  his. 

As  the  day  advanced  and  the  silver  fog  blew  in  little  gusts 
about  the  house,  making  now  this  comer  now  that  obscure,  drifting, 
so  that  suddenly,  when  the  door  opened,  the  whole  passage  seemed 
full  of  smoke,  clearing,  for  a  moment,  in  the  street  below,  showing 
lamp-posts  and  pavements  and  windows,  and  then  blowing  down 
again  and  once  more  hiding  the  world,  she  felt,  in  spite  of  herself, 
that  she  was  playing  a  part  in  some  malignant  dream.  "  It  can't 
be  like  this  really,"  she  told  herself.  "  If  I  were  to  go  to  tea 
now  with  Mrs.  Mark  and  sit  in  her  pretty  drawing-room  and 
talk  to  that  clergyman  I  wouldn't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

And  yet  it  was  true  ffliough,  her  share  in  it.  As  the  afternoon 
advanced  her  sensations  were  very  similar  to  those  that  she  had 
had  when  about  to  visit  the  St.  Dreot's  dentist,  a  fearsome  man 
with  red  hair  and  hands  like  a  dog's  paws.  She  saw  him  now 
standing  over  her  as  she  sat  trembling  in  the  chair,  a  miserable 
little  6gure  in  a  short  untidy  frock.  She  used  to  repeat  to  her- 
self then  what  Uncle  Mathew  had  once  told  her:  "  This  time  i.^xl 
year  you'll  have  forgotten  all  about  this,"  but  when  it  was  a 
question  of  facing  the  immensities  of  the  Last  Day  that  consola- 
tion was  strangely  inapt.  It  was  dusk  very  early  and  she  longed 
for  Martha  to  bring  the  lamp. 

At  last  it  came  and  tea  and  Aunt  Elizabeth.  Aunt  Anne  had 
not  appeared  all  day.  Then  long  dreary  hours  followed  until 
supper,  and  after  that  hours  again  until  ten  o'clock. 

She  had  not  been  certain,  all  this  time,  whether  the  aunts  meant 
to  take  her  to  the  service  with  them.  She  had  supposed  that  her 
introduction  to  the  meeting  at  Miss  Avies's  meant  that  they  in- 
tended to  include  her  in  this  too,  but  now,  as  the  evening  advanced, 
in  a  fit  of  nervous  terror  she  prayed  within  herself  that  they  would 
not  take  her.  If  the  end  of  the  world  were  coming  she  would 
like  to  meet  it  in  her  bed.  To  go  out  into  those  streets  and  that 
ugly  unfriendly  Chapel  was  a  horrible  thing  to  do.  If  this  were 
to  be  the  end  of  the  world  how  she  did  wish  that  she  might  have 
been  allowed  to  know  nothing  about  it.  And  those  others — Miss 
Pyncheon  and  the  rest  who  devoutly  believed  in  the  event — how 
were  they  passing  these  last  hours? 

"Oh,  it  isn't  true!  It  can't  be  true !"  she  said  to  herself.  "It's 
a  shame  to  frighten  them  so  I " 

By  eleven  o'clock  the  excitement  of  the  day  had  wearied  her 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE  263 

■0  tliat  (he  fell  fast  asleep  in  the  arm-chair  beside  the  fire.  She 
woke  to  find  Aunt  Anne  standing  over  her. 

"  It's  B  quarter  past  eleven.  It's  time  to  put  on  your  things," 
she  said.  So  she  was  to  go!  She  rose  and,  in  spite  of  herself, 
her  limbs  were  trembl-ng  and  her  teeth  chattered.  To  her  sur- 
prise Aunt  Anne  bent  forward  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"  Maggie,"  she  said,  "  if  I've  been  harsh  to  you  during  these 
weeks  I'm  sorry.  I've  done  what  ]  thought  my  duty,  but  I 
wouldn't  wish  on  this  night  that  we  should  have  any  unkindness 
in  our  hearts  towards  one  another." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  Maggie  said  awkwardly. 

She  went  up  to  put  on  her  things ;  then  the  three  of  them  went 
out  into  the  dark  foggy  street  together. 

Because  it  was  New  Tear's  Eve  there  were  many  people  about, 
voices  laughing  and  shouting  through  the  mist  and  then  some  one 
running  with  a  flaring  light,  tixen  some  men  walking  singing  in 
chorus.  The  aunts  said  nothing  1:9  they  went.  Maggie's  thoughts 
were  given  now  to  wondering  whether  Martin  would  be  there.  She 
tied  her  mind  to  that,  but  behind  it  was  the  irritating  knowledge 
that  her  teeth  were  chattering  and  her  knees  trembling  and  that 
she  did  not  maintain  her  courage  as  a  Cardinal  should. 

As  they  entered  the  Chapel  the  hoarse  ugly  clock  over  the  door 
grunted  out  half-past  eleven.  The  Chapel  seemed  on  Maggie's 
entering  it  to  be  half  in  darkness,  there  was  a  thin  splutter  of  gas 
over  the  reading-desk  at  the  far  end  and  some  more  light  by  the 
door,  but  the  centre  of  the  building  was  a  shadowy  pool.  Only  a 
few  were  present,  gathered  together  in  the  middle  seats  below  the 
desk,  perhaps  in  all  a  hundred  persons.  Of  these  three-quarters 
were  women.  The  aunts  and  Maggie  went  into  their  accustomed 
seat  some  six  rows  from  the  front.  When  Maggie  rose  from  her 
knees  and  looked  about  her  she  recognised  at  once  that  only  the 
Inside  Saints  were  here. 

Amongst  the  men  she  recognised  Mr.  Smith,  Caroline's  fathe., 
two  old  men,  brothers,  who  had  followed  Mr.  Warlock  from  their 
youth,  and  a  young  pale  man  who  had  once  been  to  tea  with 
her  aunts.    Martin  she  saw  at  once  was  not  there. 

For  some  tine,  perhaps  for  ten  minutes,  they  all  sat  in  silence, 
and  only  the  gruff  comment  of  the  clock  sounded  in  the  building. 
Then  the  lights  went  up  with  a  flare  and  Thurston,  followed  by 
Mr.  Warlock,  entered.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  Maggie  had  a 
revelation.  The  faces  around  her  seemed  to  be  suddenly  gathered 
in  front  of  her,  and  it  was  with  a  start  of  surprise  that  she  sud- 
denly realised :  "  Oh,  but  they  don't  believe  in  this  any  more  than 


264 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I  dol "  The  faces  around  her  were  agitated,  with  odd  humble  be- 
•eecbing  looks,  as  though  they  were  helpless  utterly  and  were 
hoping  that  some  one  would  suddenly  come  and  lead  them  some- 
where that  they  might  be  comfortable  again  and  at  ease. 

There  was  not  to-night,  as  there  had  been  on  other  occasions 
(and  especially  during  that  service  that  Mr.  Crashaw  had  con- 
ducted), any  sign  of  religious  and  mystical  excitement.  The 
people  seemed  huddled  together  in  the  cold  and  draughty  place 
against  their  will,  and  the  very  fact  that  the  Chapel  was  only  half 
full  chilled  the  blood.  No  drama  of  exultation  here,  no  band  of 
God's  servants  gloriously  preparing  to  meet  Him.  only  the  fright- 
ened open-mouthed  gaze  of  a  little  gathering  of  servant  girls 
and  old  maids.  That  was  Maggie's  6rst  impression;  then,  when 
the  service  began,  when  the  first  hymn  had  been  sung  and  Thurs- 
ton had  stumbled  into'  his  extempore  prayer,  Maggie  found  her- 
self caught  into  a  strange  companionship  with  the  people  around 
her.  Not  now  ecstasy  nor  the  excitement  of  religious  fanaticism 
nor  the  superstitious  preparation  for  some  awful  events — none  of 
these  emotions  row  lifted  her  into  some  strained  unnatural  sphere 
— no,  nothing  but  a  strange  sympathy  and  kindness  and  under- 
atanding  that  she  had  never  known  in  all  her  life  before.  She  felt 
the  hunger,  the  passionate  appeal :  "  Oh  God  come  1  Prove  Thy- 
self!  We  have  waited  so  long.  We  have  resisted  unbelievers,  we 
have  fought  our  own  doubts  and  betrayals,  give  us  now  a  Sign! 
something  by  which  we  may  know  Thee  I "  and  with  that  appeal 
the  conviction  in  the  hearts  of  almost  all  present  that  nothing  would 
happen,  that  God  would  give  no  sign,  that  the  age  of  miracles  was 
past. 

"  Oh.  why  did  He  want  to  be  so  definite,"  she  thought.  "  Why 
couldn't  He  have  left  them  as  they  were  without  forcing  them  to 
this." 

They  were  sitting  down  now,  and  Thurston,  with  his  cheap  sense 
of  the  dramatic  and  false  emphasis,  was  reading  from  the  New 
Testament.  Maggie  looked  to  where  Mr.  Warlock  was,  a  little 
to  the  right  of  Thurston,  in  his  black  gown,  his  head  a  little 
lowered,  his  hands  on  his  lap. 

When  she  saw  him  she  was  touched  to  the  very  heart.  Why,  he 
had  aged  in  the  last  month  a  hundred  years!  He  looked,  sitting 
there,  so  frail  and  helpless  that  it  seemed  wonderful  that  he  should 
have  been  able  to  get  there  at  all. 

His  hair  teemed  to  have  an  added  intensity  of  whiteness  to- 
night, and  his  beard  lay  against  the  black  cloth  of  his  gown  with 
a  contrast  so  sharp  that  it  was  unreal.    Maggie  fancied,  as  she 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE  265 

wttched  him,  that  he  was  bewildered  and  scaicely  knew  where  he 
was.  Once  he  looked  up  and  ronnd  about  him;  he  put  his  hand 
to  his  brow  and  then  let  it  fall  as  though  he  had  no  longer  any 
control  over  it. 

She  was  now  so  touched  by  the  pathos  of  his  helplessness  that 
ahe  could  think  of  nothing  else  and  longed  to  go  to  him  and 
comfort  him.  Time  stole  on  and  it  was  now  ten  minutes  to 
twelve.  They  sang  another  hymn,  but  the  voices  were  very  weak 
and  feeble  and  the  words  quivered  round  the  building  in  a  ghostly 
whisper.  Then  Thurston  came  to  the  Master  and  gave  him  his 
arm  and  led  him  to  the  reading-desk.  The  old  man  seemed  for  a 
moment  as  though  he  would  fall,  then,  holding  to  the  front  of  the 
desk,  he  spoke  in  a  very  weak  and  faltering  voice.  Maggie  could 
not  catch  many  of  his  words:  "My  children — only  a  little  time 
— Our  preparation  now  is  finished.  .  .  .  Qod  has  promised. 
.  .  .  Not  the  least  of  these  His  little  ones  shall  perish.  .  .  . 
Let  us  not  fear  but  be  ready  to  meet  Him  as  our  Friend  .  .  . 
our  Friend.  .  .  .  God  our  Father.  .  .  ."  Then  in  a  stronger 
voice:  "Now  during  these  last  minutes  let  us  kneel  in  silent 
prayer." 

They  all  knelt  down.  Maggie  had  no  thoughts,  no  desire  ex- 
cept that  the  time  r. ;  ht  pass;  she  seemed  to  kneel  there  asleep 
waiting  for  the  momei;t  when  some  one  should  tell  her  that  the 
time  had  gone  and  she  was  safe.  The  moments  dragged  eternally; 
a  thrilling  suspense  like  a  flood  of  water  pouring  into  an  empty 
space  had  filled  the  Chapel.  No  one  moved.  Suddenly  into  the 
heart  of  the  silence  th-;re  struck  the  first  note  of  the  clock  tolling 
the  hour.  With  Maggie  it  was  as  though  that  sound  liberated 
her  from  the  spell  that  had  been  upon  her.  She  looked  up;  she 
saw  the  master  standing,  his  hands  stretched  out,  his  face  splendid 
with  glory  and  happiness. 

He  looked  beyond  them  all,  beyond  the  Chapel,  beyond  the  world. 
He  gave  one  cry : 

"  My  God,  Thou  art  come."  Some  other  words  followed  but  were 
caught  up  and  muffled.  He  fell  forward,  collapsing  in  a  heap 
against  the  desk.  His  head  struck  the  wood  and  then  he  lay  there 
perfectly  still. 

Maggie  could  only  dimly  gather  what  happened  after  the  sound 
of  that  fall.  There  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  long  and  terrible  silence 
during  which  the  clock  continued  remorselessly  to  strike.  The 
Chapel  appeared  to  be  a  place  of  shadows  as  though  the  gas 
had  suddenly  died  to  dim  haloes;  she  was  conscious  that  people 
moved  about  her,  that  Aunt  Anne  had  left  them,  and  that  Aunt 


w 


S66  THE  CAPTIVES 

Elinbtith  was  saying  to  her  again  and  again :  "  How  terrible  t  How 
terrible!     How  terrible  I" 

Then  as  though  it  were  some  other  person,  Maggie  found  hendf 
very  calmly  speaking  to  Aunt  Elizabeth. 

"  Are  we  to  wait  for  Aunt  Anne? "  she  whispered. 

"  Anne  said  we  were  to  go  borne." 

"  Then  let's  go,"  whispered  Haggle. 

They  went  to  the  door,  pushing,  it  seemed,  through  shadows 
who  whispered  and  forms  that  ranished  as  soon  as  one  looked 
at  them. 

Out  in  the  open  air  Maggie  was  aware  that  she  was  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot,  but  a  determined  idea  that  she  must 
get  Aunt  Elizabeth  home  at  once  drove  her  like  a  goad.  Very 
strange  it  was  out  here,  the  air  ringing  with  the  clamour  of 
beils.  The  noise  seemed  deafening,  whistles  blowing  from  the 
river,  guns  firing  and  this  swinging  network  of  bells  echoing 
through  the  fog.  Figures,  too,  ran  with  lights,  men  singing, 
women  laughing,  all  mysteriously  in  the  tangled  darkness. 

They  were  joined  at  once  by  Aunt  Anne,  who  said: 

"  God  has  called  him  home,"  by  which  Maggie  understood  that 
Mr.  Warlock  was  dead. 

They  went  home  in  silence.  Inside  the  hall  Aunt  Elizabeth 
began  to  cry.  Aunt  Anne  put  her  arm  around  her  and  led  her 
away;  they  seemed  completely  to  forget  Maggie,  leaving  her 
standing  in  the  dark  hall  by  herself. 

She  found  a  candle  and  went  up  to  her  room.  The  noise  in 
the  streets  had  ceased  quite  suddenly  as  though  some  angry  voice 
had  called  the  world  to  order. 

Maggie  undressed  and  lay  down  in  her  bed.  She  lay  there  star- 
ing in  front  of  her  without  closing  her  eyes.  She  watched  the 
grey  dawn,  then  the  half-light,  then,  behind  her  blind,  bright 
sunshine.     The  fog  was  no  more. 

The  stranfi^est  fancies  and  visions  passed  through  her  brain 
during  that  time.  She  saw  Mr.  Warlock  hanging  forward  like 
a  sack  of  clothes,  the  blood  trickling  stealthily  across  his  beard. 
Poor  old  man  I  What  were  the  others  all  thinking  now)  Were 
they  sorry  or  glad!  f^ere  they  disappointed  or  relieved?  After 
all,  he  had,  perhaps,  spoken  the  truth  so  far  as  he  was  himself 
concerned.  God  had  come  for  him.  He  was  now  it  might  be 
happy  somewhere  at  peace  and  at  rest.  Then  like  a  flash  of 
lightning  across  the  darkness  came  the  thought  of  Martin.  What 
bad  he  said  i    "  If  anything  happened  to  his  father " 

The  terror  of  that  made  her  heart  stop  beating.     She  wanted 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE 


2m 


initantl;  to  go  to  him  and  see  vhat  he  was  doing.  She  even  rose 
from  her  bed,  itumbled  in  the  darkness  towards  her  dressing-table, 
then  remembered  wher«  she  was  and  what  time  and  went  back 
and  sat  upon  her  bed. 

She  sat  there,  her  fingers  tightly  pressed  together,  staring  in 
front  of  her  until  the  morning  came.  She  felt  at  her  heart  a 
foreboding  worse  than  any  pain  that  she  had  ever  known.  She 
determined  that,  directly  after  breakfast,  whatever  the  aunts  would 
say,  she  would  go  to  his  house  and  demand  to  see  him.  She  did 
not  mind  who  might  try  to  prevent  her,  she  would  fight  her 
way  through  them  all.  Only  one  look,  one  word  of  assurance  from 
him,  ard  then  she  could  endure  anything.  That  she  must  have  or 
she  would  die. 

At  last  Martha  knocked  on  the  door;  she  had  her  bath,  dressed, 
still  with  this  terrible  pain  at  her  heart. 

She  was  alone  at  breakfast,  she  drank  some  coSee,  then  went 
up  to  the  drawing-room  to  think  for  a  moment  what  course  she 
should  pursue.  The  room  was  flooded  with  sunlight  that  struck 
the  fire  into  a  dead,  lifeless  yellow. 

As  she  stood  there  she  heard  through  the  open  door  voices 
in  the  hall.  But  before  she  had  heard  the  voices  she  knew  that 
it  was  Martin. 

Martha  was  expostulating,  her  voice  following  his  step  up  the 
hall. 

"  I  shall  go  and  tell  my  mistress,"  Maggie  heard. 

Then  Martin  came  in. 

When  she  saw  him  she  stood  speechless  where  she  was.  The 
change  in  him  terrified  her  so  that  her  heart  seemed  to  leap  into 
her  throat  choking  her.  The  colour  had  drained  from  his  face, 
leaving  it  dry  and  yellow.  He  had  an  amazing  resemblance  to  his 
father,  his  eyes  had  exactly  the  same  bewildered  expression  as 
though  he  were  lost  and  yet  he  seemed  quite  calm,  his  only  move- 
ment was  one  hand  that  wandered  up  and  down  his  waistcoat  feel- 
ing the  buttons  one  after  the  other. 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  he  did  not  know  her,  and  yet  he 
spoke  her  name. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  "  I've  come  to  say  good-bye.  You  know 
what  I  said  before.  Well,  it's  come  true.  Father  is  dead,  and  I 
killed  him." 

With  a  terrible  effort,  beating  down  a  terror  that  soemed  per- 
sonally to  envelop  her,  she  said; 

"  No,  Martin.    I  saw  him  die.    It  wasn't  you,  Martin  dear." 

"  It  wot  I,"  he  answered.    "  Tou  don't  know.    I  came  into  the 


M8 


THE  CAPTIVES 


houM  drunk  tnd  be  heard  what  I  said  to  Amj.  He  nearly  died 
then.  Tbe  doctor  in  the  evening  said  he  muat  have  had  loma 
ihock." 

She  tried  to  come  to  him  then.  She  waa  thinking:  "  Oh,  if  I've 
only  got  time  I  can  win  thia.  But  I  muat  have  time.  I  muat 
have  time." 

He  moTcd  away  from  her,  aa  he  had  doue  once  before. 

"  Anyway,  it  doesn't  matter,"  he  said.  "  I've  killed  him  by  the 
way  I're  been  behaving  to  him  all  these  months.  I'm  going  away 
where  I  can't  do  any  harm." 

She  desperately  calmed  henelf,  speaking  very  quietly. 

"  Listen,  Martin.  Tou  haven't  done  him  any  harm.  He's  hap- 
pier now  than  he'a  been  for  years.  I  know  he  is.  And  that 
doesn't  touch  ua.  Tou  can't  leave  me  now.  Where  you  go  I 
muat  go." 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  No,  Uaggie.  I  ought  to  have  gone  before. 
I  knew  it  then,  but  I  know  it  absolutely  now.  Everything  I 
touch  I  hurt,  so  I  mustn't  touch  anything  I  care  for." 

She  put  her  handi,  out  towards  him;  words  had  left  her.  She 
would  have  given  her  soul  for  words  and  she  could  say  nothing. 

She  waa  aurrounded  with  a  hedge  of  fright  and  terror  and  she 
could  not  pass  it. 

He  seemed  to  see  then  in  her  eyes  her  despair.  For  an  instant 
he  lecognised  her.  Their  eyes  met  for  the  first  time;  she  felt  that 
ahe  was  winning.  She  began  eagerly  to  speak :  "  Listen,  Martin 
dear.  You  can't  do  me  any  harm.  You  can  only  hurt  me  by 
leaving  me.  I've  told  you  before.  Just  think  of  that  and  only 
that." 

The  door  opened  and  Aunt  Anne  came  in. 

He  turned  to  her  very  politely.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  coming. 
Miss  Cardinal,"  he  said.  "I  know  what  you  must  think  of 
me,  but  it's  all  right.  I've  only  come  to  say  good-bye  to  Maggie. 
It's  all  right.  Neither  you  nor  Maggie  will  be  bothered  with  me 
again." 

He  turned  to  the  open  door.  Aunt  Anne  stood  aside  to  let  him 
pass.    Maggie  said: 

"  Martin,  don't  go  I  Martin,  don't  leave  me  1  Don't  leave 
me,  Martin  I " 

He  seemed  to  break  then  in  his  resolution. 

"  It's  better.  It's  better,"  he  cried,  as  though  he  were  shouting 
himself  down,  and  then  pushing  Aunt  Anne  with  his  arm  he 
hurried  out  almost  running,  his  steps  stumbling  down  the  stain. 

Maggie  ran  to  the  door.    Her  aunt  stopped  her,  holding  her  back. 


11 


I 


THE  CHARIOT  OF  FIRE  269 

"  It't  better,  Misgie  detr,"  she  laid  very  gentlj,  repeeting  Mir- 
tin'i  words. 

The  sound  of  the  hall  door  closing  echoed  through  the  house. 

Miggie  struggled,  crying  agiin  and  again:  "Let  me  go  I  Let 
me  go!  I  mutt  go  with  him  I  I  can't  lire  without  him  I  Let  me 
gol" 

She  fought  then,  and  with  one  hand  free  hit  Aunt  Anne'a  face, 
twitting  her  body.  Then,  suddenly  weak,  so  that  the  taw  faintneas 
coming  towardt  her  like  a  cloak,  she  whispered: 

"Oh,  Aunt  Anne,  let  me  go!  Oh,  Aunt  Anne,  let  me  gol 
Please,  pleate,  let  me  got" 

Suddenly  the  house  was  darkened,  at  her  feet  waa  a  gulf  of 
blackness,  and  into  it  she  tumbled,  down,  far  down,  with  a  la«t 
little  gasping  sigh  of  distress. 


PART  III 
THE  WITCH 


CHAPTEBI 

TBI  TBUI  THRI 

<rf  the  Peace  and  •  M«inl»»  „?  P.  1?  n"  dv»  ••  •  Justice 
had  never  had?.^  priTaT  me.«  ^^X^    Unfortunately  h. 

«curity-"t.V:n"C-',^»^«ion.  to  float  him  into" 

"•nd  I  am  a  made  mw"  B^t  HriU  """  *?'  *°  •''^''' 
eompany.  and  a  rartw  toneh^^  1  -1 V /"^  tolerance  of  bad 
him  from  ^oin^TLlZ^J^'i^^  ~°*'°«d  to  divorc, 
«  «ood  thing  out  of  tU?  t^b«n  1-5?.  J      •       H^  *'"*"•  "^ 

opportunity  after  otr!2'ni^°t.^*L'rfu''JSLi't!;L°' "J"^ 
orerweeninj  «elf-conadence        "^"«"  •  "*Ued  brain  and  an 

waa  well  for  his  ,oul  that  Kc^h./^^jtz^'^  Periiapa  it 
»»n  whom  fdlure  in^M^r^t  ^T^^fi  ^'  ""  " 
he.rt  and  aimplicity  of  outl.;ok^XL  thl^';.^'^''^'^/'™*  <^ 
Bwxtu  made  him  abominably  coT^ited  .nJT-  •T'*''  ■""• 
morali^  aelf-confldence  drove  him  ri^'t^l  fc-^'v  "'  "' 
more  he  was  very  near  dertruction  «!S  k  V  "^  •  ^"^  »»<* 
thing!  Uk.  forg,^  and  highw^^i^h!™  ^j"""!'  'V  ""^  »«" 
a-n  they.    Hrfaeilati^'^.^'T,'  "<>»«»'  tW-W  wo,«, 

th.  ^t -ui  did  not  wiah  to tZL'"L°z' ^s  ::s;  is:s 


MICtOCOn  nsOlUTION  tist  chait 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


A  APPLIED  ItVMGE     li 

^^  1653   Eos!   Mam   Street 

r,S  Rothesltr.   Htt,   Yofh         U609        USA 

'-^  ('16)  *82  -  OJOO  -  Phone 

^B  (716)  ZBfl  -  59B9  -  Fa> 


274 


THE  CAPTrSTES 


had  he  not  believed  himself  to  be  a  clever  one  all  might  yet  have 
been  well.  The  temptation  of  his  cleverness  lured  him  on.  A 
stroke  of  the  pen  was  a  very  simple  thing.    ... 

To  save  his  soul  he  thought  that  he  would  go  and  see  Maggie. 
His  affection  for  her,  conceited  and  selfish  though  it  was,  was 
the  most  genuine  thing  in  him.  For  three-.,  -rters  of  the  year 
he  forgot  her,  but  when  life  went  badly  he  thought  of  her  again 
—not  that  he  expected  to  get  anything  out  of  her,  but  she  was 
good  to  him  and  she  knew  nothing  about  his  life,  two  fine  bases 
for  safety. 

"  What  have  they  been  doing  to  her,  those  damned  hypocrites, 
I  wonder,"  was  his  thought.  He  admired,  feared,  and  despised  his 
sisters.  "  All  that  stuff  about  God  "  frightened  him  in  spite  of 
himself,  and  he  knew,  in  his  soul,  that  Anne  was  no  hypocrite. 

He  rang  the  bell  and  faced  Martha.  He  had  dressed  himself 
with  some  care  and  was  altogether  more  tidy  just  then,  having 
a  new  mistress  who  eared  about  outside  appearances.  Also,  having 
been  sober  for  nearly  two  months,  he  looked  a  gentleman. 

"Is  my  niece  at  home?"  he  asked,  blinking  because  he  was 
frightened  of  Martha. 

She  did  not  seem  to  be  prepared  to  let  him  in. 

"  Miss  Maggie  has  been  very  ill,"  she  said,  frowning  at  him. 

"111?"  That  really  hurt  him.  He  stammered,  "Why?  .  .  . 
When  ? " 

She  moved  aside  then  for  him  to  pass  into  the  hall.  He  came 
into  the  dark  stuffy  place. 

"  Yes,"  said  Martha.  "  Just  after  Christmas.  Bram-fever,  the 
doctors  aaid.  They  thought  she'd  die  for  weeks.  Had  two  doc- 
tors.   .   .   .    You  can't  see  her,  sir,"  she  ended  grumpily. 

Then  Aunt  Anne  appeared,  coming  through  the  green-baize  door. 

"  Why,  Mathew,"  she  said.  Mathew  thought  how  ill  she  looked. 
"  They're  all  ill  here,"  he  said  to  himself. 

"So  Maggie's  ill,"  he  said,  dropping  his  eyes  before  her  as 
he  always  did. 

"  Yes,"  Aunt  Anne  answered.  "  She  was  very  ill  indeed,  poor 
child.  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Mathew.  It's  a  long  time  since  you've 
been."  ,    ,  ^ 

He  thought  she  was  graitler  to  him  than  she  had  been,  so,  mas- 
tering his  fear  of  her,  fingering  his  collar,  he  said: 
"Can't  I  see  her?"  .  ,      ,     ■ 

"Well.  I'm  not  ...  I  think  you  might.  It  might  do  her 
good.  She  wants  taking  out  of  herself.  She  comes  down  for  an 
hour  or  two  every  day  now.    I'll  go  and  see." 


THE  THREE  VISITS 


275 


She  left  him  standing  alone  there.  He  looked  around  him, 
sniffing  like  a  dog.  How  he  hated  the  housi.  and  everything  in  it! 
Always  had.  .  .  .  You  could  smell  that  fellow  Warlock's  trail 
over  everything.  The  black  cat,  Tom,  came  slipping  along,  looked 
for  a  moment  as  though  he  would  rub  himself  against  Mathew's 
stout  legs,  then  decided  that  he  would  not.  Mysterious  this  place 
like  a  well,  with  its  green  shadows.  No  wonder  the  poor  child  had 
been  ill  here.  At  the  thought  of  her  being  near  to  death  Mathew 
felt  a  choke  in  his  throat.  Poor  child,  never  had  any  fun  all  her 
life  and  then  to  die  in  a  green  well  like  this.  And  his  sisters 
wouldn't  care  if  she  did,  hard  women,  hard  women.  Funny  how 
religion  made  you  hard,  darn  funny.  Good  thing  he'd  been  irre- 
ligious all  his  life.  Think  of  his  brother  Charles!  There  w.ia 
religion  for  you,  living  with  his  cook  and  preaching  to  her  nejtt 
morning.    Bad  thing  religion! 

Aunt  Anne  returned,  coming  down  the  stairs  with  that  queer 
halting  gait  of  hers. 

"  Maggie's  in  the  drawing-room,"  she  said.  '  She'll  like  to  see 
you." 

As  they  went  up.  Aunt  Anne  said :  "  Be  careful  with  her,  Mathew. 
She's  still  very  weak.    Don't  say  anything  to  upset  her! " 

He  mumbled  something  in  his  throat.  Couldn't  trust  him. 
Of  course  they  couldn't.  Never  had.  .  .  .  Fine  sort  of  sisters 
they  were. 

Maggie  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders.  By 
Ood,  but  she  looked  ill.  Mathew  had  another  gulp  in  his  throat. 
Poor  kid,  but  she  did  look  ill.    Poor  kid,  poor  kid, 

"  Sorry  you've  been  bad,  Maggie,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up,  smiling  with  pleasure,  when  she  saw  who  it 
was.  Yes,  she  was  really  pleased  to  see  him.  But  how  different 
a  smile  from  the  old  one!  No  blood  behind  it,  none  of  that  old 
Maggie  determination.  He  was  filled  with  compassion.  He  took  a 
chair  close  beside  her  and  sat  down,  leaning  towards  her,  his  large 
rather  sheepish  eyes  gazing  at  ht?. 

"  What's  been  the  matter? "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Maggie  said.  "  I  was  suddenly  ill  one  day, 
and  after  that  I  didn't  know  any  more  for  weeks.  Bat  I'm  much 
better  now." 

"Well,  I'm  delighted  to  hear  that  anyway,"  he  said  heartily. 
He  was  determined  to  cheer  her  up.  "  Youll  be  as  right  as  rain 
presently." 

"  Of  course  I  shall.  I've  felt  so  lazy,  as  though  I  didn't  want 
to  do  anything.    Now  I  must  stir  myself." 


276 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"Have  the  old  women  been  good  to  you?"  he  asked,  dropping 
his  voice. 

*'  Very,"  she  answered. 

"Not  bothering  you  about  all  their  religious  tommy-rot?" 

She  looked  down  at  her  hands. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"  And  that  hypocritical  minister  of  theirs  hasn't  been  at  yon 
again!" 

"  Mr.  Warlock's  dead,"  she  answered  very  quietly. 

"Warlock  deadl"  Uncle  Mathew  half  rose  from  his  chair  in 
his  astonishment.    "  That  fellow  dead !    Well,  I'm  damned,  indeed 

I  am.    That  fellow 1    Well,  there's  a  good  riddance!    I  know 

it  isn't  good  form  to  speak  about  a  man  who's  kicked  the  bucket 
otherwise  than  kindly,  but  he  was  a  weight  on  my  chest  that 
fellow  was,  with  his  long  white  beard  and  his  soft  voice.  .  .  . 
Well,  well.  To  be  sure  I  Whatever  will  ray  poor  sisters  do  ?  And 
what's  happened  to  that  young  chap,  his  son,  nice  lad  he  was, 
took  dinner  with  us  that  day  last  year  ? " 

"  He's  gone  away,"  said  Maggie.  Mathew,  stupid  though  he  was, 
heard  behind  the  quiet  of  Maggie's  voice  a  warning.  He  flung 
her  a  hurried  surreptitious  look.  Her  face  was  perfectly  com- 
posed, her  hands  still  upon  her  lap.  Nevertheless  he  said 
to  himself,  "Danger  there,  my  boy!  Something's  happened 
there!" 

And  yet  his  curiosity  drove  him  for  a  moment  further. 

"  Gone,  has  he?    Where  to?  " 

"  He  went  abroad,"  said  Maggie,  "  after  his  father's  death.  I 
don't  know  where  he's  gone." 

"  Oh,  did  he?    Pity!    Restless,  I  expect— I  was  at  his  age." 

There  was  a  little  pause  between  them  when  Maggie  sat  very 
quietly  looking  at  her  hands.  Then,  smiling,  she  glanced  up  and 
said: 

"  But  tell  me  about  yourself,  Uncle  Mathew.  You've  told  me 
nothing." 

He  fidgeted  a  little,  shifting  his  thick  legs,  stroking  his  nose 
with  his  finger. 

"I  don't  know  that  I've  anything  very  good  to  tell  you,  my 
dear.    Truth  is,  I  haven't  been  doing  so  very  well  lately." 

"Oh,  Uncle,  I'm  sorry!" 

"  It's  nothing  to  make  yourself  miserable  about,  my  dear.  I 
always  turn  my  corners.  Damn  rocky  ones  they  are  sometimes 
too.  Everything's  turned  itself  wrong  these  last  weeks,  either  too 
Boon  or  too  late.    I  don't  complain,  all  the  same  it  makes  things 


THE  THREE  VISITS 


m 


a  bit  iaconTenient.  Thank  you  for  that  five  pounds  you  sent  me, 
my  dear,  very  helpful  it  was  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Do  you  want  another  five  pounds  J "  she  asked  him.  He 
struggled  with  himself.  His  hesitation  was  so  obvious  that  it  was 
quite  touching.    She  put  her  hand  on  his  knee. 

'*  Do  have  another  five  pounds.  Uncle.  It  won't  be  difficult  for 
me  at  all.  I've  been  spending  nothing  all  these  weeks  when  I've 
been  ill.    Please  do." 

He  shook  his  head  firmly. 

"  No.  my  dear.  I  won't.  As  I  came  along  I  said  to  myself, 
'  Now.  you'll  be  asking  Maggie  for  money,  and  when  she  says 
"  Yes  "  you're  not  to  take  it ' — and  so  I'm  not  going  to.  I  may 
be  a  rotter — but  I'm  not  a  rotten  rotter." 

He  clung  to  his  decision  with  the  utmost  resolve  as  though  it 
were  his  last  plank  of  respectability. 

"  I  can't  believe,"  he  said  to  her  with  great  solemnity,  "  that 
things  can  really  go  wrong.  I  know  too  much.  It  isn't  men  like 
me  who  go  under.    No.    No." 

He  saw  then  her  white  face  and  strange  grey  ghostly  eyes  as 
though  her  sou!  had  gone  somewhere  on  a  visit  and  the  house  was 
untenanted.  He  felt  again  the  gulp  in  his  throat.  He  bent  for- 
ward, resting  his  fat  podgy  hand  on  her  knee. 

"  Don't  you  worry,  Maggie  dear.  I've  always  noticed  that 
things  are  never  bad  for  long.  You've  still  got  your  old  uncle, 
and  you're  young,  and  there  are  plenty  of  "  ".  in  the  sea  .  .  . 
there  are  indeed.    You  cheer  up!    It  will        ill  right  soon." 

She  put  her  hands  on  his. 

"  Oh  I'm  not — worrying."  But  as  she  spoke  a  strange  strangled 
little  sob  had  crept  unbidden  into  her  throat,  choking  her. 

He  thought,  as  he  got  up,  "  It's  that  damned  young  feller  I  gave 
dinner  to.    I'd  like  to  wring  his  neck." 

"But  he  said  no  more,  bent  closer  and  kissed  her,  said  he  was 

jn  coming  again,  and  went  away. 

After  he  had  grne  the  house  sank  into  its  grey  quiet  again. 
What  was  Maggie  thinking?  No  one  knew.  What  was  Aunt 
Anne  thinking?  No  one  knew.  .  .  .  But  there  was  something 
between  these  two,  Maggie  and  Aunt  Anne.  Every  one  felt  it 
and  longed  for  the  storm  to  burst.  Bad  enough  things  outside 
with  Mr.  Warlock  dead,  members  leaving  right  and  left,  and  the 
Chapel  generally  going  to  wrack  and  ruin,  but  inside! 

Old  Martha,  who  had  never  liked  Maggie,  felt  now  a  strange, 
uncomfortable  pity  for  her.  She  didn't  want  to  feel  pity,  no,  not 
she,  pity  for  no  one,  and  especially  not  for  an  ugly  untidy  girl 


278 


THE  CAPTIVES 


like  that,  but  there  it  was,  she  couldn't  help  herself  1  Such  a 
child  that  girl,  and  she'd  been  as  nearly  dead  as  nothing,  and  now 
she  was  suffering,  suffering  awful.  .  .  .  Any  one  could  see. 
...  All  that  Warlocl:  boy.  Martha  had  seen  him  come  stum- 
bling down  the  stairs  that  day  and  had  heard  Maggie's  cry  and 
then  the  fall.  Awful  noise  it  made.  Awful.  She'd  stood  in  tbo 
hall,  looking  up  the  stairs,  her  heart  beating  like  a  hammer.  Yea, 
just  like  a  hammer!  Then  she'd  gone  up.  It  wasn't  a  nice  sight, 
the  poor  girl  all  in  a  lump  on  the  floor  and  Miss  Anne  just  as  she 
always  looked  before  one  of  her  attacks,  as  though  she  were  mado 
of  grey  glass  from  top  to  too.    .   .   . 

But  Martha  hadn't  pitied  Maggie  then.  Oh,  no.  Might  as  well 
die  as  not.  Who  wanted  her?  No  one.  Not  even  her  young  man 
apparently. 

Better  if  she  died.  But  slowly  something  happened  to  Martha. 
Not  that  she  was  sentimental.  Not  in  the  least.  But  thoughts 
would  steal  in — steal  in  just  when  you  vrere  at  your  work.  The 
girl  lying  there  so  good  and  patient — all  the  pots  and  pans  wink- 
ing at  you  from  the  kitchen-wall.  Must  remember  to  order  that 
ketchup— cold  last  night  in  bed— think  another  blanket  .  .  . 
yes,  very  good  and  patient.  Can't  deny  it.  Always  smiles  just 
that  same  way.  Smiles  at  every  one  except  Miss  Anne.  Won't 
smile  at  her.  Wonder  why  not?  Something  between  those  two. 
What  about  dinner?  A  little  onion  fry — that's  the  thing  these 
damp  days— Onion  fry— Onion  Fry.  ONION  FKY.  .  .  .  One 
last  look  back  before  the  world  is  filled  with  the  sense,  smell,  and 
taste  of  it. — Poor  girl  so  white  and  so  patient — the  young 
man  will  never  com  back — never  .  .  .  nevtsi  .  .  .  ONION 
FHT. 

No ;  no  one  knew  what  Maggie  was  thinking.  No  one  found  out 
until  Maggie  had  her  second  visitor.  Miss  Avies. 

When  Martha  opened  the  Joor  to  Miss  Avies  she  was  astonished. 
Miss  Avies  hadn't  been  near  the  house  since  old  Warlock  died. 
What  was  she  wanting  here  now,  with  her  stiff  back  and  bossy 
manner. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  can  see " 

"  Oh  nonsense,  it's  Maggie  Cardinal  I  want  to  see.  She's  now 
in  the  drawing-room  sitting  on  a  chair  with  a  shawl  on  by  the 
fire.    Don't  tell  me!" 

Martha  quivered  with  anger.    "  The  doctor's  orders  is " 

"I'm  going  to  be  doctor  to-day,"  she  said,  and  strode  inside. 
She  went  upstairs  and  found  Aunt  Elizabeth  sitting  with  Maggie. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Cardinal? " 


THE  THREE  VISITS 


879 


They  shook  hands,  Misi  Aviea  etanding  over  Aunt  Elizabeth 
like  the  boa  constrictor  raised  above  the  mouse. 

"  That's  all  right.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  want  to  see  your  sister. 
And  to  be  quite  honest,  I  don't  want  to  see  you  either.  It's  your 
niece  I  want  to  see.    And  alone " 

"  Certainly— i  .'s  only  the  doctor  said " 

"Not  to  excite  her.  7  know.  But  I'm  not  going  to  ezcit«i 
her.  I'm  going  to  give  her  some  medicine.  You  come  back  in 
half  an  hour  from  now.  Will  you?  That's  right.  Thank  you 
so  much." 

Aunt  Elizabeth,  unhappy,  uncomfortable,  filled  with  misgivings, 
as  in  these  days  she  always  was,  left  the  room. 

"Well,  there  .  .  .  that's  right,"  said  Miss  Avies,  settli.  7 
herself  in  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire  from  Maggie  and  looking  at 
her  with  not  unfriendly  eyes.    "  IIow  are  you  ? " 

"  Oh  much  better,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie.  "  Ever  so  much 
better." 

"No,  you're  not,"  said  Miss  Avies.  "And  you're  only  Ijiag 
when  you  say  you  are.  You'll  never  get  better  unless  you  do  what 
I  tell  you " 

"  What's  thatJ "  asked  Maggie. 

"Face  things.  Face  everything.  Have  it  all  out.  Don't  leave 
a  bit  of  it  alone,  and  then  just  keep  what's  useful." 

I' I  don't  quite  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Maggie— but  the 
faint  colour  had  faded  from  her  cheeks  and  her  hands  had  run 
together  for  protection. 

Miss  Avies's  voice  softened — "  I'm  probably  going  away  very 
soon,"  she  said,  "going  away  and  not  coming  back.  All  my 
work's  over  here.  But  I  wanted  to  see  you  before  I  went.  You 
remember  another  talk  we  had  here?" 

"  Very  well,"  said  Maggie. 

"  You  remember  what  I  told  you  ?  " 

"  You  told  me  not  to  stay  here,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  Miss  Avies,  "  and  I  meant  it.  The  matter 
with  you  is  that  you've  been  kept  here  all  this  tirr-.e  without  any 
proper  work  to  do  and  that's  been  very  bad  for  you  and  made  you 
sit  with  your  hands  folded  in  front  of  you,  your  head  filling  with 
silly  fancies." 

Maggie  couldn't  help  smiling  at  this  description  of  herself. 

"  Oh,  you  smile,"  said  Miss  Avies  vigorously,  "  but  it's  perfectly 
true." 

"  Well,  it's  all  right  now,"  said  Maggie,  "  because  I  am  going 
away — as  soon  as  ever  I'm  well  enough." 


u 


280  THE  CAPTIVES 

"What  to  dol"  i^ked  Miss  Avies. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  yet,"  said  Uaggie. 

"  Well,  I  know,"  said  Miss  Aries.  '•  You're  going  away  to 
brood  OTer  that  young  man." 

Ilaggie  said  nothing. 

"  Oh  I  know  ...  It  seems  cruel  of  me  to  speak  of  it  just  when 
you've  had  such  a  bad  time,  but  it's  kindness  really.  If  1  don't 
force  you  to  think  it  all  out  and  face  it  properly  you'll  be  burjing 
it  in  some  precious  spot  and  always  digging  it  up  to  look  at  it. 
You  face  it,  my  girl.  You  say  to  yourself — well,  he  wasn't  such 
a  wonderful  young  man  after  nil.  I  can  lead  my  life  all  right 
without  him — of  course  I  can.  I'm  not  going  to  be  dependent 
on  him  and  sigh  and  groan  and  waste  away  because  I 
can't  see  him,  I  know  what  it  is.  I've  been  through  it  my- 
self." 

Then  there  was  a  pause;  then  Maggie  suddenly  looked  up  and 
smiled, 

"  But  you're  quite  wrong,  Miss  Avies.  I've  no  intention  of  not 
facing  Martin,  and  I've  no  intention  either  of  having  my  life 
ruined  because  he's  not  here.  At  first,  when  I  was  very  ill,  I  was 
unhappy,  and  then  I  saw  how  silly  I  was." 

"  why ! "  said  Miss  Avies  with  great  pleasure.  "  You've  got 
over  it  already  I  I  must  say  I'm  delighted  because  I  never  thought 
much  of  Martin  Warlock  if  you  want  to  know,  my  dear.  I  always 
thought  him  a  weak  young  man,  and  h.-  wouldn't  have  done  you 
any  good.    I'm  delighted — indeed  I  am." 

"  That's  not  true  cither,"  said  Maggie  quietly.  "  If  by  getting 
over  it  you  mean  that  I  don't  love  Martin  you're  quite  wrong. 
I  loved  him  the  first  moment  I  saw  him  and  I  shall  love  him  in 
just  the  same  way  until  I  die.  I  don't  think  it  matters  what  he 
does  or  where  he  is  so  far  as  loving  him  goes.  But  that  doesn't 
mean  I'm  sitting  and  pining.    I'm  not." 

Miss  Avies  looked  at  her  with  displeasure. 

"It's  the  same  thing  then,"  she  said.  "You  may  fancy  you're 
going  to  lead  an  ordinary  life  again,  but  all  the  time  you'll  just 
be  waiting  for  him  to  come  back." 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  "  I  shall  not.  I've  had  plenty  of  time  for 
thinking  these  last  weeks,  and  I've  made  up  ray  mind  to  his  never 
coming  back — never  at  all.  And  even  if  he  did  come  back  he 
mightn't  want  me.  So  I'm  not  going  to  waste  time  about  i  I 
shall  find  work  and  make  myself  useful  somewhere,  but  I  shau  al- 
ways love  Martin  just  as  I  do  now." 

"  You're  very  young,"  said  Miss  Avies,  touched  in  spite  of  her- 


THE  THREE  VISITS 


281 


wLo^ic/-""  '"'  ''"''"  "'"'  """•  "■"  ""^''  '»«'='  '»-■>  young 

'  better  "or^sronl     ."    ?"•'*  P?"'"  ""^  """  '"^^f''r<^«o"'-  one'. 
»;ti  -n     T  ,""■"?,"    <"•  'w.sor.'-But  whut  hns  tluit  Rot  to  do 

wanted  LTth^n  aJ'.ri^/on^tr"  "'''  """  '  ^"'"  '"  ""^ 
thlJla^'t  teklr^''  """  ^"^''  ""'""•■^-    "  "-  .-'■■-  «-- 

tim^and  never  stop  loving  Martin  for  one  single  second  " 
wIhT""'    "'"  "'"  ^"^''  "  '"""'  °"^  -' 'j  •»  -r^  ,ou, 
"It  would  depend,"  said  Maggie:  "if  I  liknd  him  o„j  i  n 

?::  bt:::i;^'i^td\  rlt^i^::- r^rtb 

so  gloomy  about  everything.    Now  that  IVe' goT  Mart^"""^ 
lost^hiLf'"'      '"'"™'"^'^  ^"'  ^"-=  "-"y-  >-'-  only  iust 

"No,  I  haven't,"  answered  Maggie     "Hb  di,1nV  »«  .„.„     u 
c.use  he  hated  n>e  or  was  tired  of  me,  he  w'en  twafb^:  le  t 

f^tjr,  "  •'°  ■"'  ^"^  ^u"™'  ^""^  I  »''">k  he  eared  for  memor^ 
just  at  that  mmute  than  h.'d  ever  done  before.     .So  IVeTotW 

trLZ.TT7  '!  ^l  I  '"'''•''  -  «•-'''"''  have  g  t'on 
wen,  together,  I  don't  think  I  would  ever  have  faseinnt^H  I,"™ 
enough  to  keep  him  with  me  for  very  long-but  nnwrl  .u 
he  loved  me  at  the  very  moment  he 'wenfawar'aXasn't^^h  nk' 
i  eouW  bf"  '  ""^  "  ^'"''  "  ""^'^  '^"P"  '  "-'  -  hrir'iEa'ng 
ean^n',!'."''   ''T  '■'l'''^'"  '"'^   ^'"^   ^"'"'    »stoni.,hed.     "  Pow 


I 


282 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"  We  weren't  «Iw»y«  quavrelling."  said  Maggie.  "  We  weren  t 
together  enough,  but  if  wc  had  been  it  wouldn't  have  meant  >h»t 
we  di'In't  love  one  another.  1  don't  think  we'd  over  been  rerj 
happy,  but  being  happy  together  doetn't  »eeni  to  me  the  only 
aign  of  love.  Love  neems  to  me  to  be  momenta  of  great  joy 
rising  from  every  Itind  of  trouble  and  bother.  I  don't  call  tran- 
quillity happineaa."  „.,,..       .    .       ..      j 

"Well,  you  have  thought  things  out."  said  Miss  Avies,  and 
all  of  us  considering  you  so  stupid " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  squash  myself  into  a  comer  any  more,"  said 
Maggie.  "Why  should  II  I  find  I'm  as  good  as  any  one  else. 
I  made  Martin  love  me — even  though  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 
So  I'm  going  to  be  shy  no  longer." 

"  And  here  was  I  thinking  you  heart-broktn,"  said  Miss  Avies. 

"  I'm  going  out  into  the  world,"  said  Moggie  half  to  herself. 
"I'm  going  to  have  adventures.  I've  been  in  tliis  house  long 
enough.  I'm  going  to  see  what  men  and  women  are  really  like 
—I  know  this  isn't  real  here.  And  I  want  to  discover  about 
leligion  too.  Since  Martin  went  away  I've  felt  that  there  was 
8on->thing  in  it.  I  can't  think  what  and  the  aunts  can't  think 
eitiier;  none  of  you  know  here,  but  some  one  must  have  found 
out  something.    I'm  going  to  settle  what  it  all  means." 

"  You've  got  your  work  cut  out."  said  Miss  Avies.  "  I'll  come 
and  see  you  again  one  day  soon." 

"Tea,  do,"  said  Maggie. 

When  Miss  Avies  had  gone  Maggie  realised  that  she  had  been 
talking  with  bravado— in  fact  she  hid  her  head  in  the  cushion  of 
the  chair  and  cried  for  at  least  ave  minutes.  Then  she  sat  up 
and  wiped  her  eyes  because  she  heard  Aunt  Anne  coming.  When 
Aunt  Anne  came  towards  her  now  she  was  affuoted  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  sickness.  She  told  herself  that  that  was  port  of  her 
illness.  She  did  not  hate  Aunt  Anne.  For  some  weeks,  when  she 
had  risen  slowly  from  the  nightmare  that  tie  first  period  of  her 
illness  had  been,  she  hated  Aunt  Anne,  hated  her  fiercely,  ab- 
sorbingly, desperately.  Then  suddenly  the  hatred  had  left  her, 
and  had  she  only  known  it  she  was  from  that  moment  never  to 
hate  any  one  again.  A  quite  new  love  for  Martin  was  suddenly 
bom  in  her,  a  love  that  was,  as  yet,  like  the  first  faint  stirring  of 
the  child  in  the  mother's  womb.  This  new  love  was  quite  different 
from  the  old ;  that  had  been  acquisitive  possessive,  urgent,  restless, 
and  often  terribly  painful;  this  was  t.anquil,  sure,  utterly  certain, 
and  passive.  The  immediate  frui»  of  it  was  that  she  regarded 
all  human  creatures  with  a  lively  interest,  an  interest  too  absorbing 


THE  THREE  VISITS  283 

to  allow  o1  hatred  or  even  actire  dislike.  Her  love  for  Martin 
»a»  now  like  n  rong  current  in  her  loul  washing  aw.iy  all  sense 
of  irritation  .,  anger.  She  regarded  people  from  a  new  angle. 
What  were  they  all  about?  Whit  were  they  thinking)  Had 
they  too  had  some  experience  aa  i  .ar%-llcu8  at  her  meeting  with 
tad  parting  from  Martin?  Probably;  and  they  too  were  shy  of 
•peaking  of  it.  Her  love  for  Martin  iiowly  grew,  a  love  now  inde- 
pendent of  earthly  contact  and  earthly  desire,  a  treasure  tl-..t  would 
be  hers  so  long  as  life  lasted,  that  no  one  could  take  i  om  her. 

She  no  longer  hated  Aunt  Anno,  but  she  did  not  inend  to  live 
with  lier  any  more.  So  soon  as  sho  was  well  enough  she  would 
go.  l  hat  momei.;  of  physical  contact  when  Aunt  Anne  had  held 
her  back  made  any  more  relation  between  them  impossible.  There 
wa«  now  a  great  gulf  fixed. 

The  loneliness,  the  sense  of  desperate  loss,  above  all  the  agonis- 
ing longing  for  Martin,  his  step,  his  voice,  his  smile— she  faced  all 
these  and  accepted  them  as  necessary  companions  now  on  her  lii'e's 
jonmey,  but  she  did  not  intend  to  allow  them  to  impede  progress. 
She  wondered  now  about  everybody.  Her  own  experience  had 
shown  her  what  strange  and  wonderful  things  occur  to  all  human 
beings,  and,  in  the  face  of  this,  how  could  one  hate  or  grudge  or 
despise?     She  had  a  fellowship  now  with  all  humanity. 

But  the  was  aa  ignorant  about  life  as  ever.  The  things  that 
now  she  wanted  to  know!  About  Aunt  Anno,  for  instance.  How 
had  she  been  affected  by  Mr.  Warlock's  death  and  the  disappoint- 
ment of  her  expectations?  The  Chapel  now  apparently  was  to 
be  taken  over  by  Thurston,  who  had  married  Amy  Warlock  and 
waa  full  of  schemes  and  enterprises.  Maggie  knew  that  the  aunts 
went  now  very  seldom  to  Chapel,  and  the  Inside  Saints  were  ap- 
parently in  pieces.  Waa  Aunt  Anne  utterly  broken  by  aU  this? 
She  did  not  seem  to  be  so.  She  seemed  to  be  very  much  as  sho 
had  been,  except  that  she  was  in  her  room  now  a  great  deal.  Her 
health  appeared,  on  the  whole,  to  be  better  than  it  had  been. 
And  what  was  Aunt  Elizabeth  thinking?  And  Martha?  And 
Miss  Avies?    And  Caroline  Smith?    .    .   . 

No,  she  must  get  out  into  the  world  and  discover  these  things 
for  herself.  Sho  did  not  kni  •  how  the  way  of  escape  would 
come,  but  she  was  certain  of  its  arrival. 

It  arrived,  and  through  her  third  visitor.  Her  third  visitor 
was  Mrs.  Mark. 

When  Katherine  Mark  came  in  Maggie  was  writing  to  Uncle 
Mathew.  She  put  aside  her  writing-pad  with  a  little  exclamation 
of  surprise.     Mrs.  Mark,  the  very  last  person  in  all  the  world 


284 


THE  CAPTIVES 


whom  .he  hod  expected  to  .eel     A.  .he  .«w  her  come  in  .he 
C"  -wift  iutuition  tb.t  thi.  -..  Uo.t  n,  now  tl...  wa.  dca  ng 

with  her.  ond  that  a  new  .cenc.  ir»'VT„,r'^*r  "More  Z 
experience  and  adventure,  wa  openinK  betore  her.  More  tuan 
«cr  be  ore  .he  rcali.cd  how  far  Kalherine  Mark  »»  Iron,  the 
:  r  d  .  wh  eh  .he.  .Mn.«ic,  hud  during  all  .'--f  '"on'h»  beea 
Hv  MB  Katherine  Murk  wu.  Kcal-Keal  m  her  beautiful  .,uiet 
S  ,  in  her  us.uruncc.  her  eu.e.  the  ■»..«■  that  .he  gave  ha 
^ ho  knew  life  and  love  und  busine..  and  uU  the  nlluir.  of  men 
at  «„!  hn,,'l!  not  only  .een  through  a  mi.t  of  .uper.t.tion  and 
ignornnee.  or  indeed  not  .ecu  at  oil.  „  j   ,„  u„, 

''"Thi-  i.  what  1  want."  .cmcthing  in  Maggie  called  to  her. 
'•Thi.  will  make  me  busy  and  'luiet  ""J  ,''™'"''''^-"'  ,  711,. 
When  Kotherine  Murk  .at  do«n  und  took  her  hand  «»'  "  "''' 
ment.  smiling  at  her  in  the  kindlie.t  way.  Maggie  lelt  a.  though 
.111!  had  known  her  all  her  life.  , 

"S       I'm   .0  glad   you've  come!"    «he   f'^^'^^ZT^i 
and  then,  as  tliough  .be  felt  she'd  gone  too  far.  she  blu.hed  and 
drew  back. 
But  Kathcri  le  held  her  hand  fast. 

"I  wrote,"  she  said,  "some  weeks  ago  to  yoii,  and  ?<>"'  «""* 
onswered  the  letter  saying  you  were  very  .11.    Then.  "»  Ih^*"^ 
nothing  of  you.  I  wa.  anxious  and  come  to  .ee  what  had  hap 
peiied.    YoJve  not  kept  your  word.  Maggie,  .vou  know.    We  were 
to  have  been  greot  friends,  and  you've  never  bicn  near  me. 
At  the  use  of  her  Christian  name  Maggie  blushed  with  pleasure. 
"I  couldn't  come."  she  said.     "  I  didn't  want  to  unt.l-until- 
until  somo  things  had  settled  themselves." 
"Well— ond  they  havei"  asked  Katherine. 
"  Yes— they  have."  said  Moggie. 

"What,  been  the  matter?"  asked  Katherine.  ^^ 

"I  was  worried   about  something,  and  then  I   was  ill,     said 

"  And  you're  not  worried  now? "  said  Katherine.  _ 

"I'm  not  going  to  give  in  to  it,  anyway,     said  Maggie.        As 

soon  as  I'm  well,  I'm  o3.     I'll  find  some  work  somewhere. 

"  I've  got  a  plan,"  said  Katherine.    "  It  came  into  my  head  the 

moment  I  sow  ^.u  sitting  there.    Will  you  come  and  stay  with  us 

*°Tho!'"enle'that  Maggie  had  had  when  , he  saw  Kathe.ine  of 
fate  having  a  hand  in  all  of  this  deepened  now  and  coloured  her 
houghtrso  that  she  eould  feel  no  surprise  but  only  a  cunonB 
instinct  that  she  bad  been  through  aU  this  scene  before. 


THE  THREE  VISITS 


esr, 


"Stay  with  you!"  ►hp  rii.'d.    •' Oli,  I  should  low  to! " 

"That's  Koo.!.'  »aid  Kulhiriiic.  "Your  aurit«  wont  mind,  Ml 
theyt" 

"  Thpy  can't  keep  me."  naid  Maecie.  "  I'm  free.  But  they  won't 
wont  to.    Our  timr  togcthiT  is  over- " 

"  I'll  oonu'  and  fcii-h  you  to-morrow,"  naid  Kathiri-.i?.  "  You 
aball  »tay  with  u»  until  you're  quite  well,  and  then  we'll  tind 
aome  work  I'or  you." 

"  Why  ari'  you  good  to  mo  like  this! "  Mngdie  !i»ki'il. 

"I'm  not  good  to  you."  Kuthcrine  anawcn.'  luunhinB.  "  II'm 
aimply  fclti-h.     It  will  be  lovuly  for  me  liuviun  vmi  with  mo." 

"  Oh,  you  dnn't  know,"  naid  Mngtiie.  throwing  up  her  hiad. 
"  No,  I  don't  think  I'll  come.  I'm  frightiind.  I'm  nut  what 
you  think.  I'm  untiily  and  carcV  ■  ami  can't  tulk  to  ttrunKiTs. 
PcrhapH  I'll  loBc  you  altogether  as  „  iricnd  if  1  come." 

"  You'll  never  do  that."  said  Kathcrine,  suddenly  bending  for- 
ward and  kissing  h^r.  "  I  don't  change  about  people.  It'a  be- 
cau!>e  1  haven't  any  imagination,  Phil  soys." 

"  I  ahall  make  mistakes,"  Maggie  said.  "  !'"■  never  been 
an.Twhere.    But  I  don't  care.    I  can  look  after  my   'If." 

The  thought  of  her  three  hundred  pounds  (whi  were  no  longer 
three  hundred)  encouraged  her.    She  kissed  Kal    ..ine. 

"  I  don't  change  cither,"  she  aaid. 

She  had  a  strange  eoi. /ersation  with  Aunt  Anno  that  nigh\ 
strange  as  every  talk  had  always  been  because  of  things  left  unsa 
They  faced  one  another  across  the  fireplace  like  enemies  who  niig, 
have  been  lovers;  there  had  been  from  the  very  first  moment  oi 
this  meeting  a  romantic  link  between  them  which  had  never  been 
defined.  They  had  never  had  it  out  with  one  another,  and  they 
were  not  going  to  have  it  out  now;  but  Maggie,  who  wa--  never 
sentimental,  wondered  at  the  strange  mixture  of  tenderness,  pity, 
affection,  irritation  and  hostility  that  she  felt. 

"  Aunt  Anne,  I'm  going  away  to-morrow,"  said  ilagaie. 

"To-morrow!"  Aunt  Anne  looked  up  with  her  strange  hostile 
arrogance.     "  Oh  no,  Maggie.     You're  not  well  yet.'' 

"  Mrs.  Mark,"  said  Maggie,  "  the  lady  1  told  you  about,  is  com- 
ing in  a  motor  to  fetch  me.  She  will  take  me  straight  to  her 
house,  and  then  I  shall  go  to  bed." 

Aunt  Anne  said  nothing. 

"  You  know  that  it'a  better  for  me  to  go."  said  Maggie.  "  We 
can't  live  together  any  more  after  what  happened.  You  and 
Aunt  Eliiabcth  have  been  very  very  good  to  me,  but  you  know 


286 


THE  CAPTIVES 


now  that  I'm  a  disappointment.  I  haven't  ever  fitted  into  the 
life  here.    I  never  shall." 

"  The  life  here  is  over,"  said  Aunt  Anne.  "  Everything  is  over 
—the  house  is  dead.  Of  course  you  must  go.  If  you  feel  anger 
with  me  now  or  afterwards  remember  that  I  have  lost  every 
hope  or  desire  I  ever  had.  I  don't  want  your  pity.  I  want  no  one's 
pity.  I  wanted  once  your  affection,  but  I  wanted  it  on  my  own 
terms.  That  was  wrong.  I  do  not  want  your  affection  any  longer; 
you  were  never  the  girl  I  thought  you.  You're  a  strange  girl, 
Maggie,  and  you  will  have,  I  am  a^i-aid,  a  very  unhappy  life." 

"  No,  I  will  not."  said  Maggie.    "  I  wiU  have  a  happy  life." 

"  That  is  for  God  to  say,"  said  Aunt  Anne. 

"  No,  it  is  not,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  can  make  my  own  happiness. 
God  can't  touch  it,  if  I  don't  iet  Him." 

"Maggie,  you're  blasphemous,"  said  Aunt  Anne,  but  not  in 

"  I'in  not,"  said  Maggie.  "  When  I  came  here  first  I  didn't  be- 
lieve in  God,  but  now— I'm  not  sure.  There's  something  strange, 
which  may  be  God  for  all  I  know.  I'm  going  to  find  out.  If  He 
has  the  doing  of  everything  then  He's  taken  away  all  I  cared  for, 
and  I'm  not  going  tr  give  Him  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that  it 
hurt:  if  He  didn't  do  it,  then  it  doesn't  matter." 

"You'll  believe  in  Him  before  you  die,  Maggie,"  said  Aunt 
Anne.  "  It's  in  you,  and  you  won't  escape  it.  I  thought  it  was 
I  who  was  to  bring  you  to  Him,  but  I  was  going  too  fast. 
The  Lord  has  His  own  time.  You'll  come  to  Him  after- 
wards." .  ,  , 

"  Oh,"  cried  Maggie.  "  I'm  so  glad  I'm  going  somewhere  where 
it  won't  be  always  religion,  where  they'll  think  of  something  else 
than  the  lord  and  His  Coming.  I  want  real  life,  banks  and 
motor-cars  and  shops  and  clothes  and  work    .   .   . 

She  stopped  suddenly. 

Aunt  Anne  was  doing  what  Maggie  had  never  seen  her  do 
before,  even  in  the  worst  bouts  of  her  pain— she  was  crying  .  .  . 
cold  solitary  lonely  tears  that  crept  slowly,  reluctantly  down  her 

thin  cheeks.  , .       ^  i         j         •« 

"I  meant  to  do  well.     In  everything  I  have  done  lU.    .   .   . 

Everything  has  failed  in  my  hands " 

Once  again,  as  long  before  at  St.  Dreot's,  Maggie  could  do 

nothing.  ...  »  j 

There  was  a  long  miserable  silence,  then  Aunt  Anne  got  up  and 

went  away.  ^  i  u 

Next  day  Katherine  came  in  a  beautiful  motor-car  to  fetch 


THE  THREE  VISITS 


287 


Maggie.  Maggie  had  packed  her  few  things.  Round  her  neck 
next  her  skin  was  the  ring  with  three  pearls.    ... 

She  said  good-bye  to  the  house :  her  bedroom  beneath  which  the 
motor-omnibuses  clanged,  the  sitting-room  with  the  family  group, 
the  passage  with  the  Armed  Men,  the  dark  ball  with  the  green 
baize  door  .  .  .  then  good-bye  to  Aunt  Elizabeth  (two  kisses), 
Aunt  Anne  (one  kiss),  Martha,  Thomas  the  cat,  the  parrot  .  .  . 
all,  everything,  good-bye,  good-bye,  good-bye! 

May  I  never  see  any  of  you  again.  Never,  never,  never, 
never!    .   .   . 

She  was  helped  into  the  car,  ruga  were  wrapped  round  her, 
there  was  a  warm  cosy  smell  of  rich  leather,  a  little  clock  ticked 
away,  a  silver  vase  with  red  and  blue  flowers  wtiiked  at  her,  and 
Katherine  was  there  close  beside  her.    .   .   . 

Never  again,  never  again !  And  yet  how  strange,  as  they  turned 
the  corner  of  the  street  down  into  the  Strand,  Maggie  felt  a 
sudden  pang  of  regret,  of  pathos,  of  loneliness,  as  though  she 
were  leaving  something  that  had  loved  her  dearly,  and  leaving  it 
without  a  word  of  friendliness. 

"  Poor  dear ! "  She  wanted  to  return,  to  tell  it  ...  to  tell 
it  what?  She  had  made  her  choice.  She  was  plunging  now  into 
the  other  half  of  the  world,  and  plunging  not  quite  alone,  because 
she  was  taking  Martin  with  her. 

"  I  do  hope  you  won't  mind,  dear,"  said  Katherine.  "  My  cousin 
Paul — the  clergyman  you  met  once — is  staying  with  us.  He  and 
his  sister.    No  one  else." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  mind,"  said  Maggie.  Her  fingers,  inside  her 
blouse,  tightly  clutched  the  little  pearl  ring. 


CHAPTEH  n 

PLL'NOE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 

FOR  a  week  Maggie  was  so  comfortable  that  she  could  think 
of  nothing  but  that.  It  must  be  remembered  that  she  had 
never  before  known  what  comfort  was,  never  at  St.  Dreot's,  never 
at  Aunt  Anne's,  and  these  two  places  had  been  the  background 
of  all  her  life. 

She  had  never  conceived  of  the  kind  of  way  that  she  now 
lived  Iler  bedroom  was  so  pretty  that  it  made  her  almost  cry 
to  look  at  it :  the  wall-paper  scattered  with  little  rosy  trees,  the 
soft  pink  cretonne  on  the  chairs,  the  old  bureau  with  a  sheet  of 
glass  covering  its  surface  that  was  her  dressing-table,  the  old  gold 
mirror— all  these  things  were  wonders  indeed.  She  was  ordered 
to  have  breakfast  in  bed;  servants  looked  after  her  with  a  kindli- 
ness and  ease  and  readiness  to  help  that  she  had  never  dreamed 
of  as  possible.  The  food  was  wonderful ;  there  was  the  motor  ready 
to  take  her  for  a  drive  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  was  the  whole 
house  at  her  service,  soft  and  cosy  and  ordered  so  that  it  seemed  to 
roll  along  upon  its  own  impulse  without  any  human  agency. 

"I  believe  if  every  one  went  away  and  left  it,"  she  thought, 
"  it  would  go  on  in  exactly  the  same  way." 

Figures  gradually  took  their  places  in  front  of  this  background. 
The  principals  at  first  were  Katherine  and  Philip,  Henry  and 
Millicent.  Katherine's  brother  and  sister,  Mr.  Trenchard  senior, 
Katherine's  father.  Lady  Rachel  Seddon,  Katherine's  best  friend, 
and  Mr.  Faunder,  Katherine's  uncle.  She  saw  at  once  that  they 
all  revolved  around  Katherine;  if  Katherine  were  not  there  they 
would  not  hold  together  at  all.  They  were  all  so  different— so 
different  and  yet  so  strangely  alike.  There  was,  for  instance, 
Millicent  Trenchard,  whom  Maggie  liked  best  of  them  all  after 
Katherine.  Millie  was  a  young  woman  of  twenty-one,  pretty,  gay, 
ferociously  independent,  enthusiastic  about  one  thing  after  another, 
with  hosts  of  friends,  male  and  female,  none  of  whom  she  took  very 
seriously.  The  love  of  her  life,  she  told  Maggie  almost  at  once, 
was  Katherine.  She  would  never  love  any  one,  man  or  woman, 
so  -nuch  again.  She  lived  with  her  mother  and  father  in  an  old 
house  in  Westminster,  and  Maggie  understood  that  there  had  been 
some  trouble  about  Katherine's  marriage,   so  that,  although  it 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 


289 


happened  three  years  ago,  Mrs.  Trenchard  would  not  come  to  see 
Katherine  and  would  not  allow  Katherine  to  come  and  see  her. 

Then  there  was  Henry,  a  very  strange  young  man.  lie  was 
at  Cambridge  and  said  to  be  Tery  clever.  He  did  indeed  seem 
to  lead  a  mysterious  life  of  his  own  and  paid  very  little  atten- 
tion to  Maggie,  asking  her  once  whether  she  did  not  think  The 
Golden  Ass  wonderful,  and  what  did  she  think  of  Petronius;  and 
when  Maggie  laughed  and  said  that  she  was  glad  to  say  she  never 
read  anything,  he  left  iier  in  an  agitated  horror.  Lady  Rachel 
Seddon  was  very  grand  and  splendid,  and  frightened  Katherine. 
She  was  related  to  every  kind  of  duke  and  marquis,  and  although 
that  fact  did  not  impress  Maggie  in  the  least,  it  did  seem  to 
remove  Lady  Rachel  into  quite  another  world. 

But  they  were  all  in  another  world — Maggie  discovered  that 
at  once.  They  had,  of  course,  every  sort  of  catch-word  and  allu.sion 
and  joke  that  no  one  but  themselves  and  the  people  whom  they 
brought  into  the  house  understood;  Katherine  was  kindness  itself. 
Philip  too  (he  seemed  to  Maggie  a  weak,  amiable  young  man)  took 
a  lot  of  trouble  about  her,  but  they  did  not  belong  to  her  nor 
she  to  them. 

"And  why  should  they?"  said  Maggie  to  herself.  "I  must 
look  on  it  as  though  I  were  staying  at  a  delightful  hotel  and  were 
going  on  with  my  journey  very  soon." 

There  was  somebody,  however,  who  did  not  belong  any  more 
than  Maggie  did,  and  very  soon  he  became  Maggie's  constant  com- 
panion— this  was  the  Rev.  Paul  Trenchard.  Katherine's  cousin. 

From  the  very  moment  months  ago,  when  Maggie  and  he  had 
first  met  in  Katherine's  drawing-room,  they  had  been  friends.  He 
had  liked  her.  Maggie  felt,  at  once.  She  on  her  side  was  attracted 
by  a  certain  childlike  simplicity  and  innocence.  This  very  quality, 
she  soon  saw,  moved  the  others,  Philip  and  Henry  and  Mr.  Tren- 
chard senior,  to  derision.  They  did  not  like  the  Rev.  Paul.  They 
chaffed  him.  and  he  was  very  easily  teased,  because  he  was  not 
clever  and  did  not  see  their  jokes.  This  put  Maggie  up  in  arms 
in  his  defence  at  once.  But  they  had  all  the  layman's  distrust  of 
a  parson.  They  were  all  polite  to  him,  of  course,  and  Maggie 
discovered  that  in  this  world  politeness  was  of  the  very  first  im- 
portance, so  that  you  really  never  said  what  you  thought  nor  did 
what  you  wanted  to.  They  frankly  could  not  understand  why 
Katherine  asked  the  parson  to  stay,  but  because  they  loved  Kather- 
ine they  were  as  nice  to  him  as  their  natures  would  allow  them  to 
be.  Paul  did  not  apparently  notice  that  they  put  him  outside  their 
life.    He  was  always  genial,  laughed  a  great  deal  when  there  was 


290 


THE  CAPTIVES 


1 . 


no  reason  to  laugh  at  all,  and  told  simple  little  stories  in  whoso 
effect  he  profoundly  believed.  He  was  supported  m  his  confa- 
dciice  by  his  sister  Grace,  who  obviously  adored  him.  She  too 
was  "outside"  the  family,  but  she  seemed  to  be  quite  happy 
telling  endless  stories  of  Paul's  courage  and  cleverness  and  popu- 
larity. She  did  indeed  believe  that  Skeaton-on-Sea,  where  Paul 
had  his  living,  was  the  hub  of  the  universe,  and  this  amused  all  the 
Trenchard  family  very  much  indeed.  It  must  not  be  supposed 
that  Paul  and  his  sister  were  treated  unkindly.  They  were  shown 
the  greatest  courtesy  and  hospitality,  but  Maggie  knew  that  that 
was  only  because  it  was  the  Trenchard  tradition  to  do  so,  and 
not  from  motives  of  affection  or  warmth  of  heart. 

They  could  be  warm-hearted;  it  was  wonderful  to  see  the  way 
that  they  all  adored  Katherine,  and  they  had  many  friends  for 
whom  they  would  do  anything,  but  the  Kev.  Paul  seemed  to  tliem 
frankly  an  ass.  and  they  would  be  glad  when  he  went  away. 

He  did  not  seem  to  Maggie  an  ass.    She  thought  him  the  kindest 
person  she  had  ever  known,  kinder  even  than  Katherine,  because 
with  Katherine  there  was  the  faintest   suspicion  of  patronage; 
no,  not  of  patronage-that  was  unfair    .    .    .    but  of  an  effort 
to  put  herself  in  exactly  Maggie's  place  so  that  she  might  under- 
stand perfectly  what  were  Maggie's  motives.    With  Paul  Iren- 
chard  there  was  no  effort,  no  deliberate  slippinp  out  of  one  world 
into  another  one.    He  was  frankly  delighted  to  tell  Maggie  everj-- 
thing— all  about  Skeaton-on-Sea  and  its  delights,  about  the  church 
and  its  marvellous  east  window,  about  the  choir  and  the  difficulties 
with  the  choir-boys  and  the  necessity  for  repairing  the  organ, 
about  the  troubles  with  the  churchwardens,  especially  one  Mr. 
Bellows    who,  in  his  cantankerous  and  dyspeptic  objections   to 
everything  that  any  one  proposed,  became  quite  a  lively  figure 
to  Maggie's  imagination,  about  the  St.  John's  Brotherhood  which 
had  been  formed  to  keep  the  "lads"  out  of  the  public-houses  and 
was  doing  so  well,  about  the  Shakespeare  Heading  Society  and  a 
Mrs.  Tempest  (who  also  became  a  live  figure  in  Maggies  brain), 
"a  born  tragedian"  and  wonderful  as  Lady  Macbeth  and  Kathe- 
rine of  Aragon.     Skeaton  slowly  revealed  itself  to  Maggie  as  a 
sunny  sparkling  place,  with  glittering  sea,  shining  sand,  and  dark 
cool  woods,  full  of  kindliness,  too,  and  friendship  and  good-humour. 
Paul  and  Grace  Trenchard  seemed  to  be  the  centre  of  this  sun- 
shine.    How  heartily  Paul  laughed  as  he  recounted  some  of  the 
tricks  and  escapades  of  his  "young  scamps.'     "Dear  fellows, 
he  would  say,  "Hove  them  all    ..."  and  Grace  sat  by  smiling 
and  nodding  her  head  and  beaming  upon  her  beloved  brother. 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 


291 


To  Maggie,  fresh  from  the  dark  and  confused  terrors  of  the 
Chapel,  it  was  all  marvellous.  Here  was  rest  indeed,  here,  with 
jUnrtin  cherished  warmly  in  her  heart,  she  might  occupy  herself 
with  duties  and  interests.  Here  surely  she  would  be  useful  to 
"  somebody."  She  heard  a  good  deal  of  an  old  Mr.  Toms,  "  a 
little  queer  in  his  head,  poor  man,"  who  seemed  to  figure  in  the 
outskirtn  of  Skeaton  society  as  a  warning  and  a  reassurance. 
("  No  one  in  Skeaton  thinks  of  him  in  any  way  but  tenderly.") 
Maggie  wondered  whether  he  might  not  want  looking  after.    .   .    . 

The  thought  gradually  occurred  to  her  that  this  kindly  genial 
clergyman  might  perhaps  find  her  some  work  in  Skeaton.  He 
even  himself  hinted  at  something.  .  .  .  She  might  be  some 
one's  secretary  or  housekeeper. 

About  Grace  Trenchard  Maggie  was  not  quite  so  sure.  She  was 
kindness  itself  and  liked  to  hold  Maggie's  hand  and  pat  it — 
but  there  was  no  doubt  at  all  that  she  was  just  a  little  bit  tire* 
some.  Maggie  rebuked  herself  for  thinking  this,  but  again  and 
again  the  thought  arose.  Grace  was  in  a  state  of  perpetual 
wonder,  everj'thing  amazed  her.  You  would  not  think  to  look  at 
her  flat  broad  placidity  that  she  was  a  creature  of  excitement,  and 
it  might  be  that  her  excitement  was  rather  superficial.  She  would 
siiy:  "Why!  Just  fancy,  Mag^.e!  .  .  .  To-day's  Tuesday!" 
Then  you  wondered  what  was  coming  next  and  nothing  came  at 
all.  She  had  endless  stories  about  her  adventures  in  the  streets  of 
London,  and  these  stories  were  endless  because  of  all  the  details 
that  must  be  fitted  in,  and  then  the  details  slipped  out  of  her 
grasp  and  winked  at  her  maliciously  as  they  disappeared.  The  fact 
wag  perhaps  that  she  was  not  very  clever,  but  then  Maggie  wasn't 
very  clever  either,  so  she  had  no  right  to  criticise  Miss  Trenchard, 
who  was  really  as  amiable  as  she  could  be.  Henry  Trenchard  said 
once  to  Maggie  in  his  usual  scornful  way; 

"Oh,  Grace!  .  .  .  She's  the  stupidest  woman  in  Skeaton, 
which  means  the  stupidest  woman  in  the  world." 

The  Trenchards,  Maggie  thought,  were  rather  given  to  scorn- 
ing every  one  save  themselves.  Even  Philip,  who  was  not  a  Tren- 
chard, had  caught  the  habit.  Katherine,  of  course,  despised  no 
one  and  liked  every  one,  but  that  was  rather  tiresome  too. 

In  fact  at  the  end  of  her  first  week  i>Iaggie  thought  that  as  soon 
as  possible  she  would  find  a  room  for  herself  somewhere  and  start 
to  earn  her  living.  She  discovered  that  she  was  developing  a  new 
sensitiveness.  When  she  was  living  with  the  aunts  she  had  not 
minded  very  seriously  the  criticisms  made  upon  her;  she  had  in- 
deed been  disappointed  when  Aunt  Anne  had  not  admired  her 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I 


new  dreiw,  and  ebc  had  hated  Amy  Warlock's  rudaneas,  but  that  wii 
because  Martin  bad  been  inrolred.  This  new  sensitiveness  worried 
her;  she  hated  to  care  whether  people  laughed  at  the  way  she  came 
into  a  room  or  whether  she  ezpreaaed  foolish  opinions  about  books 
and  pictures.  She  had  always  said  just  what  she  thought,  but 
now,  before  Philip's  kindly  attention  and  Mr.  Trenchard  senior's 
indulgence  (be  wrote  books  and  articles  in  the  papers),  she  hated 
her  ignorance.  Paul  Trenchard  knew  frankly  nothing  about  Art. 
"  I  know  whet  I  like,"  he  said,  "  and  that's  enough  for  me."  He 
liked  Watts's  pictures  and  In  Memoriam  and  Dickens,  and  he  heard 
The  ileaJah  once  a  year  in  London  if  he  could  leave  his  parish 
work.  He  laughed  about  it  all.  "  The  souls  of  mer  t  The  souls 
of  men  I  "  he  would  say.  "  That  is  what  I'm  after,  Miss  Cardinal. 
You're  not  going  to  catch  them  with  the  latest  neurotit  novel,  how- 
ever well  it's  written." 

Oh,  he  was  kind  to  her  I  He  was  kinder  and  kinder  and  kinder. 
She  told  him  everything — except  about  Martin.  She  told  him  all 
about  her  life  at  St.  Dreot's  and  her  father  and  Uncle  Matbew, 
the  aunts  and  the  Chapel. 

He  was  frankly  shocked  by  the  Chapel.  "  That's  not  the  way 
to  get  into  heaven,"  he  said.  "We  must  be  more  patient  than 
that.    The  daily  round,  the  daily  task,  that's  the  kind." 

His  physical  presence  began  to  pervade  all  her  doings.  Uc  was 
not  handsome,  but  so  clean,  so  rosy,  and  so  strong.  No  mystery 
aboat  him,  no  terrors,  no  invasions  from  the  devil.  Everything 
was  clear  and  certain.  He  knew  just  where  he  was  and  exactly 
whither  be  was  going.  One  afternoon,  when  they  were  out  in  the 
motor  together,  he  took  Maggie's  hand  under  the  rug  and  he  held 
it  so  calmly,  so  firmly,  with  so  kindly  a  benevolence  that  she  could 
not  be  frightened  or  micomfortable.  He  was  like  a  large  friendly 
brother.    .    .    . 

One  day  he  called  her  Maggie.  He  blushed  and  laughed.  "  I'm 
so  sorry,"  he  said.    "  It  slipped  out     I  caught  it  from  Kathcrine." 

"  Oh,  please,  .  .  .  never  mind,"  she  answered.  "  Miss  Cardi- 
nal's so  stiff." 

"  Then  you  must  call  me  Paul,"  he  said. 

A  little  conversation  that  Maggie  had  after  this  with  Millicent 
showed  her  in  sharp  relief  exactly  where  she  stood  in  relation  to 
the  Trenchard  family.  They  had  been  out  in  the  motor  together. 
Millie  had  been  shopping  and  now  they  were  rolling  back  through 
the  Park. 

"  Are  .you  happy  with  us,  Maggie  ? "  Millicent  suddenly  asked. 

"Very  happy,"  Maggie  answered. 


PLUNGK  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 


293 


"  Well,  I  hope  you  ore,"  said  Uillicent.  "  I  don't  think  that 
as  a  family  we're  very  good  at  making  any  one  happy  except  our- 
sclres.    I  think  we're  very  selfish." 

"No,  I  don't  think  you're  selfish,"  said  Maggie,  "but  I  think 
you're  sufficient  for  yoursclve*.  I  don't  fancy  you  really  want  any 
one  from  outside." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  the  others  do.  I  do  though.  You  don't  sup- 
pose I'm  going  to  stay  in  the  Trenchard  bosom  for  ever,  do  you? 
I'm  not,  I  assure  you.  But  what  you've  said  means  that  you  don't 
really  .tel  at  home  with  us." 

"  I  don't  think  I  want  to  feel  at  home  with  you."  Maggie 
answered.  "  I  don't  belong  to  any  of  you.  Contrast  us,  for 
instance.  You've  got  everything — good  looks,  money,  cleverness, 
position.  You  can  get  what  you  like  out  of  life.  I've  got  nothing. 
I'm  plain,  poor,  awkward,  uneducated— and  yet  you  know  I 
wouldn't  change  places  with  any  one.  I'd  rather  be  myself  than 
any  one  alive." 

"  Yes,  you  would,"  said  Millicent,  nodding  her  head.  "  That's 
you  all  over.  I  felt  it  the  moment  you  came  into  the  house.  You're 
adventurous.  We're  not.  Katherine  was  adventurous  for  a  mo- 
ment when  she  married  Philip,  but  she  soon  slipped  back  again. 
But  you'll  do  just  what  you  want  to  always." 

"  I  shall  have  to,"  said  Maggie,  laughing.  "  There's  no  one 
else  to  do  it  for  me.  It  isn't  only  that  I  don't  belong  to  you — 
I've  never  belonged  to  any  one,  only  one  person — and  he's  gone 
now.    I  belong  to  him— and  he'll  never  come  back." 

"  Were  you  frightfully  in  love?"  asked  Millie,  deeply  interested. 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie. 

"He  oughtn't  to  hare  gone  away  like  that,"  said  Millicent. 

"  Yes,  he  ought,"  said  Maggie.  "  He  was  quite  right.  But  don't 
let's  bother  about  that.  I've  got  to  find  some  place  now  where  I 
can  work.  The  worst  of  it  is  I'm  so  ignorant.  But  there  must  be 
something  that  I  can  do," 

"  There's  Paul,"  said  Millie. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Oh,  he  cares  like  anything  for  .you.  Yon  must  have  noticed. 
It  began  after  the  first  time  he  met  you.  He  was  always  asking 
about  you.    Of  course  every  one's  noticed  it." 

'•  Cares  for  me,"  Maggie  repeated. 

"  Yes.  of  course.  He's  wanted  to  marry  for  a  long  time.  Tired 
of  Grace  bossing  him,  I  expect.  That  doesn't  soun;!  vpry  polite 
to  you,  but  I  know  that  he  cares  for  you  apart  from  that— for 
yourself,  I  mean.    And  I  e.\pcct  Grace  is  tired  of  housekeeping." 


i|* 


294 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Maggio'g  feelings  were  very  strange.  Why  ahovld  be  care  about 
her?  Did  she  want  him  to  care?  A  strange  friendly  feeling 
stole  about  her  heart.  She  was  not  alone  then,  after  all.  Some 
one  wanted  her,  wanted  her  so  obviously  that  every  one  had  no- 
ticed it — did  not  want  her  as  Martin  had  wanted  her,  against  his 
own  will  and  judgment  If  be  did  offer  her  his  home  what  would 
she  feel? 

There  was  rest  there,  rest  and  a  real  home,  a  home  that  she  bad 
never  in  all  her  life  known.  Of  course  she  did  not  love  him  in 
the  least.  His  approach  did  not  make  her  pulses  beat  a  moment 
faster,  she  did  not  long  for  him  to  come  when  he  was  not  there 
— but  he  wanted  her  I    That  was  the  great  thing.    He  wanted  herl 

"  Of  course  if  he  asked  you,  yon  wouldn't  really  think  of  marry- 
ing himi"  said  M-Uicent. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie  slowly. 

"What I  Marry  him  and  live  in  Skeaton!"  Hillicent  was 
frankly  amazed.  "  Why,  Skeaton's  awful,  and  the  people  in  it  are 
awful,  and  Grace  is  awful.    In  the  summer  it's  all  nigger-minstrels 

and  bathing-tents,  and  in  the  winter  there  isn't  a  soul "    Milli- 

cent  shivered. 

Maggie  smiled.  "  Of  course  it  seems  dull  to  you,  but  my  life's 
been  very  different.  It  hasn't  been  very  exciting,  and  if  I  could 
really  help  hiji— "  she  broke  off.  "  I  do  like  him,"  she  said.  "  He's 
the  kindest  man  I've  ever  met.  Of  course  he  seems  dull  to  you  who 
have  met  all  kinds  of  brilliant  people.    I  hate  brilliant  people." 

The  car  was  in  Bryanston  Square.  Just  before  it  stopped  Millie 
bent  over  and  kissed  Maggie. 

"  I  think  you're  a  darling,"  she  said. 

But  Millie  didn't  think  Maggie  "  a  darling  "  for  long — that  is, 
she  did  not  think  about  her  at  all  for  long;  none  of  the  family  did. 

So  quiet  was  Maggie,  so  little  in  any  one's  way  that,  at  the  end 
of  a  fortnight,  she  made  no  difference  to  any  one  in  the  bouse. 
She  was  much  better  now,  looking  a  different  person,  colour  in  her 
cheeks  and  light  in  her  eyes.  During  her  illness  they  had  cut  her 
hair  and  this  made  her  look  more  than  ever  like  a  boy.  She  wore 
her  plain  dark  dresses,  black  and  dark  blue;  they  never  quite 
fitted  and,  with  her  queer  odd  face,  her  high  forehead,  rather  awk- 
ward mouth,  and  grave  questioning  eyes  she  gave  you  the  impres- 
sion that  she  had  been  hurried  into  some  disguise  and  was  wear- 
ing it  with  discomfort  but  amusement.  Some  one  who  met  her 
at  the  Trenchards  at  this  time  said  of  her :  "  What  a  funny  girl ! 
She's  like  a  schoolboy  dressed  up  to  play  a  part  in  the  school 
speeches."    Of  course  she  was  not  playing  a  part,  no  one  could  have 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 


295 


been  more  entirely  natural  and  huni'tt,  but  she  wtt  odd,  atrange, 
out  of  her  own  world,  and  every  one  felt  it. 

It  wae,  perhaps,  this  atrangencss  that  attracted  Paul  Trenchard. 
He  was,  above  everj'thing,  a  kindly  man — kindly,  perhaps  a  little 
through  laziness,  but  nevertheless  moved  always  by  distress  or 
misfortune  in  others.  Maggie  was  nut  distressed — she  was  quite 
cheerful  and  entirely  unsentimental — nevertheless  she  had  been 
very  ill,  was  almost  penniless,  had  had  some  private  trouble,  was 
an  orphan,  had  no  friends  save  two  old  aunts,  and  was  amazingly 
ignorant  of  tlif  world. 

This  last  was,  perhaps,  the  thing  that  struck  him  most  of  all. 
He,  too,  was  ignorant  of  the  world,  but  he  didn't  know  that,  and  he 
Wits  amazed  at  the  things  that  Maggie  brushed  aside  as  un- 
important. He  found  that  he  was  beginning  to  think  of  her  as 
"  my  little  hjathen."  His  attitude  was  the  same  os  that  of  a 
good  missionary  <liscovering  a  naked  but  trusting  native. 

The  thought  of  training  this  virgin  mind  was  delightful  to 
him. 

He  liked  her  quaintness,  and  one  day  suddenly,  to  his  own 
surprise,  when  they  were  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  he  kissed  her» 
a  most  chaste  kiss,  gently  on  the  forehead. 

"  Oh.  my  dear  child "  he  said  in  a  kind  of  dismay. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  complete  confidence.  So  gentle  a 
kiss  had  it  been  that  it  had  been  no  more  than  a  pressure  of  the 
hand. 

A  few  days  later  Katherine  spoke  to  her.  She  came  up  to  her 
bedroom  just  as  Maggie  was  beginning  to  undress.  Maggie  stood 
in  front  of  the  glass,  her  evening  frock  off,  brushing  her  short 
thick  hair  before  the  glass. 

"  Have  you  made  any  plans  yet,  dear? "  asked  Katherine. 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said.    "  Not  yet." 

Katherine  hesitated. 

"  I've  got  a  confession  to  make,"  she  said  at  last. 

Maggie  turned  to  look  at  her  with  her  large  childish  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  you've  done  something  wrong,"  she  sold,  laugh- 
ing, "  something  really  bad  that  I  should  have  to  '  overlook.'  " 

"  What  do  you  mean!  "  asked  Katherine 

Maggie  only  said :  "  We'd  be  more  on  ,-.  level  then." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  anything  very  bad.  But  the  truth  is,  Maggie, 
that  I  didn't  ask  you  here  only  for  my  own  pleasure  and  to  mnke 
you  well.     There  w.ts  a  third  reason." 

"  I  know,"  said  Maggie ;  "  Paul." 


296 


THE  CAPTIVES 


i 


m 


"  lij  dear  I"  uid  Kitberine,  imand.  "How  did  you  guMtt 
I  nerer  riiould  btre  done." 

"  PxuJ'i  uked  you  to  find  oat  wbetker  I  like  him,"  said  Utggie. 

"  Yes,"  uid  Kitherine. 

"  Well,  I  do  like  him."  uid  Uan>e. 

"  Don't  think  tb*t  I're  been  unfair,"  uid  Kitberine.  They 
were  sitting  now  side  by  aide  on  Mtggie'a  bed  and  Katberinc'a 
band  was  on  Maggie's  knee.  "  I'll  tell  you  exactly  bow  it  hap- 
pened. Paul  was  interested  in  you  from  the  moment  that  be  saw 
you  at  my  house  ever  so  long  ago.  He  asked  erer  so  many  ques- 
tions about  you,  and  the  next  time  he  stayed  be  wanted  mc  to 
write  and  ask  you  to  come  and  stay.  Well,  I  didn't.  I  knew  from 
what  you  told  me  that  you  cared  for  somebody  else,  and  I  didn't 
want  to  get  Paul  really  fond  of  you  if  it  was  going  to  be  no  good. 
You  see,  IVe  known  Paul  for  igei.  He's  nearly  ten  years  older 
than  I,  but  he  used  to  come  and  stay  with  us  at  Oarth,  when  he 
was  at  Cambridge  and  before  be  wai  a  clergyman. 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  him.  I  know  the  others  think  he's  stupid 
■imply  because  he  doesn't  know  the  things  that  they  do,  but  he'a 
good  and  kind  and  boneat,  and  just  exactly  wha'i,  he  seema  io 
be." 

"  I  like  him,"  repeated  Maggie,  nodding  her  head. 

"He's  been  wanting  to  'oe  married,"  went  on  KatL?rine,  "for 
some  time.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  everything  so  that  i  shall  have 
been  per'sctly  fair.  Grace  wants  him  to  be  married  too.  All  her 
life  she's  looked  after  bim  and  he's  always  done  exactly  what  she 
told  him.  He's  rather  lazy  and  it's  not  bard  for  some  one  to  get 
an  infiuence  over  him.  Well,  she's  not  really  a  very  good  manager. 
She  thinks  she  is,  but  she  isn't.  She  arranges  things  and  wants 
things  to  stay  just  where  she  puts  them,  but  she  arranges  all  the 
wrong  unnecessary  things.  Still,  it's  easy  to  criticise,  and  I'm  not 
a  very  good  manager  myself.  I  think  she's  growing  rather  tired  of 
it  and  would  like  some  one  to  take  it  oS  her  hands.  Of  course 
Paul  must  many  the  right  person,  some  one  whom  she  can  control 
and  manage,  and  some  one  who  won't  transplant  her  in  Paul's 
affection.  That's  her  idea.  But  it's  all  nonsense,  of  course.  You 
can't  have  your  cake  and  eat  it.  She  simply  doesn't  understand 
what  marriage  is  like.  When  Paul  marries  she'll  learn  more  about 
life  in  a  month  than  she's  learnt  in  all  her  days.  Well,  Maggie, 
dear,  she  thinks  you're  just  the  girl  for  Paul.  She  thinks  she  can 
do  what  she  likts  with  you.  She  thinks  you're  nice,  of  courae, 
but  she's  going  to  '  form '  you  and  '  train '  yon.  You  needn't 
worry  about  that,  you  needn't  really,  if  you  care  about  Paul. 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 


297 


Tou'd  minage  both  of  tfartn  in  t  week.    But  there  it  i*— I  thought 
I  ought  to  warn  you  about  Urace. 

"  Aa  to  Paul,  I  bcliere  you'd  be  happy.  Tou'd  hare  your  home 
and  your  life  and  your  friend*.  Skeaton  ian't  to  bad  if  you  lire 
in  it,  I  believe,  and  Paul  could  get  another  liTiog  if  you  weren't 
happy  there." 

Did  Katherinc  have  any  icruplea  aa  abe  puraued  her  argu- 
ment (  A  real  glance  at  Maggie'i  confiding  truttful  geio  migkt 
have  ahaken  lier  ro^  Ire.  Tbia  child  who  knew  oo  little  about 
anything— W0.1  SI  un  th.i  world  for  her)  But  Katherine  had  ao 
mary  pliilautbroiuis  that  aho  waa  given  to  finiahing  one  oS  a  little 
abri.;>tly  in  order  to  make  ready  for  the  next  one. 

She  vaa  intereated  juat  now  in  a  acherac  for  adopting  illegiti- 
mate babica.  bhe  thought  Maggie  an  "  angel "  and  abe  juat  longed 
for  her  to  be  happy.  N'evertheleaa  Maggie  waa  very  ignorant,  and 
it  waa  a  little  difficult  to  aee  what  trade  or  occupation  ahe  would 
be  ab!-  to  adopt.  She  waa  nearly  well  now  and  Katherine  did  not 
know  quite  what  to  do  with  her.  Here  waa  an  admirable  marriage, 
aomething  that  would  give  a  home  and  children  and  friends.  What 
could  be  better!  She  had  juat  pasaed  apparently  through  a  love 
affair  t\iat  could  have  led  to  no  poaaible  good — solve  the  difficulty, 
mr.ke  Maggie  aafe  for  life,  and  pasa  on  to  the  illegitimate  babies  I 
"  Of  courae,  I  don't  love  him,"  aaid  Maggie,  staring  in  front 
of  her. 

"  But  you  like  him,"  said  Katherine.  '*  It  isn't  as  though  Paul 
were  a  very  young  man.  He  wouldn't  expect  anything  very 
romantic.  He  isn't  really  a  romantic  man  himself." 
"  And  I  shall  always  love  Martin,"  puraued  Maggie. 
Eatherine's  own  romance  had  fulfilled  itself  so  thoroughly  that 
it  bad  almost  ceased  to  be  romantic.  The  Trenchard  blood  in 
her  made  her  a  little  impatient  of  unfulfilled  romances. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Maggie,  dear,"  ahe  aaid  gently,  "  that  it  would 
be  better  to  forget  him  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't."  said  Maggie,  moving  away  from  Katherine. 
"And  I  should  have  to  tell  Paul  about  him.  I'd  tell  Paul  the 
exact  truth,  that  if  I  married  him  it  was  becauae  I  liked  him 
and  I  thought  we'd  be  good  friends.  I  aee  quite  clearly  that 
I  can't  sit  for  ever  waiting  for  Martin  to  come  back,  and  the 
sooner  I  settle  to  something  the  better.  If  Paul  wants  a  friend 
I  can  be  one,  but  I  should  never  love  him— even  though  Martin 
wasn't  there.  And  as  to  the  managing,  I'm  dreadfully  careless 
and  forgptful." 
"  YouM  soon  learn,"  said  Katherine. 


I 


298 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"Do  jou  think  I  thould?-  iikid  Minie.  "I  don't  know  I'm 
•ur«.  At  to  Oran,  I  think  we'd  get  on  all  rifht.  Thtre'i  •  ncitcr 
difficulty  thin  that  thourh."  " 

"  Whatt"  Mked  Kithcrine  ■•  MigsJe  hwilitid. 

''Keligion,"  uid  Maggie.  "P.ul'i  i  clergyman  and  I  don't 
believe  in  hit  religion  at  all.  Two  montht  ago  I'd  hare  laid  I 
hated  all  religion-and  to  would  you  if  you'd  had  a  time  like 
me.  But  dinco  Martin'i  gone  I'm  not  to  ture.  There't  tome- 
Ihmgl  want  to  find  out.  .  .  .  But  Paul'i  found  out  erery. 
thing.  He  t  quite  lurc  and  certain.  I'd  hKve  to  tell  him  I  don't 
believe     I  any  of  hit  faith." 

"  T. ,  ra,  of  coune,"  laid  Katherine.  "  I  think  ho  knowi  that 
already,  ilei  going  to  convert  you.  He  lookt  forward  to  it. 
If  be  hadn  t  been  «o  laiy  he'd  have  been  a  minaionary." 

"  Tell  me  about  Skeaton,"  laid  Maggie. 

jj '"^1°"'''  '^"  """*  ""'*•"  "■''  Katherine.  "Frankly,  I 
didn  t  like  it  very  much,  but  then  I'm  to  uied  to  the  Olebeihire 
lea  that  it  all  teemed  rather  Ume.  There  waa  a  good  deal  of 
«nnd  blowing  about  the  day  I  wat  there,  but  Paul't  houte  ii 
nice  with  a  garden  and  a  croquet-lawn,  and— and— Oh  I  very  nice 
and  nice  people  neit  door  I  believe." 

"  I'm  glad  it'i  not  like  Olebeihire,"  laid  Maggie.  "  That'i  a 
point  in  iti  favour.  I  want  to  be  lomewhere  where  everything  it 
quiet  and  orderly,  and  every  i,-ie  knowi  their  own  mind  and  all  the 
bells  ring  at  the  right  time  anJ  no  one'a  strange  or  queer,  and— 
moit  of  all— where  no  one'i  afraid  of  anything.  All  my  life  I've 
been  with  people  who  were  afraid  and  I've  been  afraid  mytelf. 
Now  Paul  and  Grace  are  not  afraid  of  anything." 
"  No,  they're  not,"  laid  Katherine,  laughing. 
Suddenly  Maggie  broke  out: 

"Katherine I  Tell  me  truly.  Doei  Paul  want  me,  doet  he 
need  mc!    Does  he  indeed  ? " 

The  storm  of  appeal  in  Maggie's  voice  made  Katherine  suddenly 
shy;  there  was  a  hint  at  lonelinest  and  desolation  there  that  wat 
something  beyond  her  reach.  She  wanted  to  help.  She  was  sud- 
denly frightened  at  her  urging  of  Paul's  suit.  Something  seemed 
to  say  to  her:  "Leave  this  alone.  Don't  take  the  responsibility 
of  this.    You  don't  understand.     .     .     ." 

But  another  voice  said:  "Poor  child  .  .  .  all  alone,  penni- 
less, without  a  friend.  What  a  chance  for  her  I  Paul  luch  a  kind 
man." 

So  she  kissfd  Maggie,  and  aaid:  "He  wants  yon  dreadfully. 
Jiiiggio  dear."  ' 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 


299 


Utftie'i  chc«ki  flutbol. 

"  Tbil'«  ni«,"  ihc  uid  in  her  moit  ordiDirjr  rolce.  "  Becaua* 
no  on*  ever  bat  before,  you  know." 

Ptul't  proposal  camo  the  iriry  next  day.  It  came  after  luncheon 
in  a  corner  uf  the  drr.wing-ruoni. 

Maggie  knew  quite  well  that  it  waa  coming.  She  waa  lying  in 
a  long  chair  near  llie  lire,  a  ibawl  over  her  kneei.  It  waa  a 
bluitering  day  iit  tbo  end  of  Februarj-  The  window!  rattled, 
and  tbo  wind  rushing  down  the  chimney  blew  the  flame  into  little 
flag!  and  pennants  uf  colour. 

Paul  came  and  itood  by  the  fire,  warming  bit  handa,  hit  lega 
tpread  out.  Maggie  looked  at  him  with  a  long  comprehensive 
glance  that  took  him  in  from  head  to  foot.  She  teemed  to  know 
then  that  the  wat  going  to  marry  him.  A  voice  teemed  to  tay 
to  her:  "  Look  at  him  well.  Thit  it  the  man  you're  going  to  livo 
with.    You'd  better  reolliio  him." 

She  did  realite  him;  bit  white  hair,  hit  roty  cheeki.  hit  boyith 
note  and  m  ,uth  and  rounded  chin,  hit  broad  chett,  thick  long  legi 
a"'  largo  white  handi— toft  perhaps,  but  worm  and  comfortable 
and  aafe.  Maggie  could  think  of  little  else  at  the  looked  it  him 
but  of  how  nice  it  would  ue  to  lay  her  head  back  on  that 
broad  chett,  feel  hit  armt  around  her,  and  forget— forget— for- 
get! 

That  wai  what  the  needed — forgetfulneit  and  work.     . 
She  did  not  love  him— no,  not  one  little  atom.     She  had  never 
felt  lets  excitement  about  anybody,  Iiut  the  liked  him,  respected 
him,  and  trusted  him.    And  he  wanted  her,  wintcd  her  dctperatel.T, 
Katherine  had  said,  that  wat  the  chief  thing  of  all. 

"Maggie I"  he  aaid  suddenly,  turning  round  to  her.  "Would 
you  ever  think  of  marrying  me?" 

She  liked  that  iirectneat  and  timplicity,  characteriatic  of  him. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"  I  don't  think  I'd  b«  much  of  a  tuccest,  Paul,"  she  .laid. 

He  saw  at  once  from  that  that  she  did  not  intend  instantly 
to  refuse  him.  His  rosy  cheeks  took  on  an  added  tinge  of  colour 
and  he  caught  a  chair,  drew  it  up  to  her  long  one  and  aat  down, 
bending  eagerly  towards  her. 

"  Leave  that  to  mc,"  he  said. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  think  of  it,"  she  answered,  shaking  her  head. 
"  And  for  very  good  reasons.  For  one  thing  I'm  not  in  love 
with  you,  for  another  I'm  not  religious,  and  for  a  third  I'm  so 
careless  that  I'd  never  do  for  your  wife." 

"  Of  course  I  knew  about  the  first,"  he  said  eagerly.    "  I  knew 


n 


300 


THE  CAPTIVES 


:     A 


you   didn't   love   me,   but    that    will    come,    Maggie.     It    must 
come.     .     .     ." 

Maggie  shook  her  head.  "I  love  some  one  else,"  she  said. 
"and  I  always  will.  But  he's  gone  away  and  will  never  tome 
back.    I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that.    But  if  he  did  come  back 

and  wanted  me  1  couldn't  promise  that  I  wouldn't "     She 

broke  off.      "  You  can  see  that  it  wouldn't  do." 

"  No,  I  can't  see,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand.  "  I  can  see  that 
you  like  me,  Maggie.  I  can  see  that  we're  splendid  friends.  If 
your  other — friend— has  left  you  altogether,  then— well,  time 
makes  a  great  difference  in  those  things.  I  think  after  we'd  been 
together  a  little— Oh,  Maggie,  do!"  he  broke  off  just  like  a  boy. 
"  Do  I  We  suit  each  other  so  well  that  we  must  be  happy,  and 
then  Grace  likes  you— she  likes  you  very  much.  She  does  indeed." 
"Let's  leave  Grace  out  of  this,"  Maggie  said  firmly.  "It's 
between  you  and  me,  Paul.  It's  nobody  else's  affair.  What 
about  the  other  two  objections!  I  don't  believe  in  your  faith  at 
all,  and  I'm  unpunctual  and  forgetful,  and  break  things." 

Strangely  she  was  wanting  him  urgently  now  to  reassure  her. 
She  realised  that  if  now  he  withdrew  she  would  be  faced  with  a 
loneliness  more  terrible  than  anything  that  she  had  known  since 
Martin  had  left  her.  The  warm  pressure  of  his  hand  about  hers 
reassured  her. 

"  Maggie  dear,"  he  said  softly,  "  I  love  you  better  because  you're 
young  and  unformed.     I  can  help  you,  dear,  and  you  can  help 
me,  of  course ;  I'm  a  dreadful  old  buffer  in  many  ways.    I'm  forty, 
yo    know,  and  you're  such  a  child.    How  old  are  you,  Maggie? " 
"  Twenty,"  she  said. 

"  Twenty  I  Fancy !  And  you  can  like  an  old  parson— well, 
well.  ...  If  you  care  for  me  nothing  else  matters.  God  will 
see  to  the  rest." 

"I  don't  like  leaving  things  to  other  people,"  Maggie  said  slowly. 
"Now  I  suppose  I've  shocked  you.  But  there  you  are;  I  shall 
always  be  shocking  you." 

"  Nothing  that  you  can  say  will  shock  me,"  he  answered  firmly. 
"  Do  you  know  that  that's  part  of  the  charm  you  have  for  me, 
you  dear  little  wild  thing?  If  you  will  come  and  live  with  me 
perhaps  you  will  see  how  God  works,  how  mysterious  are  His  ways, 

and  what  He  means  to  do  for  you " 

iraggie  .shivered:  "Oh,  now  you're  talking  like  Aunt  Anne. 
I  don't  want  to  feel  that  I'm  something  that  some  one  can  do 
what  he  likes  with.     I'm  not." 
"No.    I  know  you're  not,"  Paul  answered  eagerly.     "You're 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 


301 


Tery  independent.    I  admire  that  in  .you — and  bo  does  Grace        " 

"Would  Grace  like  us  to  marry J"  .isked  Maggie. 

"  It's  the  desire  of  her  heart,"  ?aid  Paul. 

"  But  how  can  you  want  to  marry  me  when  you  know  I  don't 
love  you ! " 

"  Lore's  a  strange  thing.  Companionship  can  make  great 
changes.  You  like  me.  That  is  enough  for  the  present.  I  can 
be  patient.    I'm  not  an  impetuous  man." 

He  was  eertaiiily  not.  He  was  just  a  large  warm  comfortable 
creature  far,  far  from  the  terrified  and  strangely  travelled  soul 
of  Martin.  .  .  .  Insensibly,  hardly  realising  what  she  did, 
Maggie  was  drawn  towards  Paul.  He  drew  close  to  her,  moved 
on  to  the  sofa,  and  then  with  one  arm  about  her  let  her  head 
rest  against  his  chest.  Maggie  could  neither  move  nor  speak. 
She  only  felt  a  warm  comfort,  an  intense  desire  for  rest. 

Very,  very  gently  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her  forehead.  The 
clock  ticked  on.  The  flames  of  the  fire  spurted  and  fell.  Maggie's 
eyes  closed,  she  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  soon,  her  cheek  against  his 
waistcoat,  like  a  little  child,  was  fast  asleep. 

The  engagement  was  a  settled  thing.  Every  one  in  the  house 
was  relieved.  Maggie  herself  felt  as  though  she  had  found  lights 
and  safety,  running  from  a  wood  full  of  loneliness  and  terror. 
She  was  sharp  enough  to  see  how  relieved  they  all  were  that  she 
was  '  settled.'  They  were  true  kindly  people,  and  now  they  were 
more  kind  to  her  than  ever:  that  showed  that  they  had  been 
uneasy  about  her.     She  was  '  off  their  hands  now.' 

Maggie,  when  she  saw  this  in  the  faces  of  Philip  and  Mr. 
Trenchard,  and  even  of  Millicent,  was  glad  that  she  was  engaged. 
She  was  somebody's  now;  she  had  friends  and  a  home  and  work 
now,*  and  she  would  banish  all  that  other  world  for  ever.  For 
ever?  .  .  ,  How  curious  it  was  that  from  the  moment  of  her 
engagement  her  aunts,  their  house,  the  Chapel,  and  the  people 
around  it  began  to  press  upon  her  attention  with  a  pathos  and 
sentiment  that  she  had  never  felt  before.  She  went  to  see  the 
aunts,  of  course,  and  sat  in  the  old  drawing-room  for  half-an-hour, 
and  they  were  kind  and  distant.  They  were  glad  that  she  was  to 
be  married;  they  hoped  that  she  would  be  happy.  Aunt  Anne 
looked  very  ill,  and  there  was  a  terrible  air  of  desertion  about 
the  house  as  though  all  the  life  had  gone  out  of  it.  Maggie  came 
away  very  miserable.  Then  she  said  to  herself :  "  Now,  look  here. 
You're  in  a  new  house  now.  You've  got  to  think  of  nothing  but 
that — nothing,  nothing,  nothing.     .      .      ." 

She  meant  Martin.     She  might  think  of  Martin   (how  indeed 


i*    t 


302 


THE  CAPTIVES 


could  she  help  it?)   but  she  was   not   to   long  for  him.     No 
no     .  .     not  to  long  for  him.    She  did  wish  that  she  could 

go  to  sleep  more  quickly  when  she  went  to  bed 
fc;f tu  '"^  Grnce  ■were  very  kind  to  her.     Paul  was  just  the 

thfn  11".  '"*"'■!•'■  *"'  '^''  ^"^'^  *'''°  *°  ^-  No  more  sentiment 
tZl  A  :  t  i  moming,  a  kiss  evening,  that  was  all.  Grace 
behaved  to  them  both  with  a  motherly  indulgence.  Maggie  saw 
that  she  considered  that  she  had  arranged  the  whole  affair  There 
were  signs  that  she  intended  to  arrange  everything  for  Maggie 
Well,  It  was  rather  pleasant  just  now  to  have  things  arranged 
for  you.  Maggie  had  only  one  wish-that  Grace  would  not  take 
so  long  to  explain  everything.  Maggie  always  ran  ahead  of  her 
long  before  she  had  finished  her  involved  sentences  and  then  had 
to  curb  her  impatience.  However  one  .vould  get  used  to  Grace- 
one  would  have  to  because  she  was  going  to  live  with  them  after 
they  were  married.  Maggie  had  hoped  that  it  would  be  otherwise. 
but  It  was  at  once  obvious  that  neither  Paul  nor  Grace  dreamt 
of  being  separated. 

The  wedding  was  to  be  as  soon  as  possible,  and  very,  very 
quiet.  In  a  little  church  close  by,  no  bridesmaids,  everything 
very  simple.  Maggie  was  glad  of  that.  She  would  have  hated 
a  church  fun  of  staring  people.  She  enjoyed  immensely  buying 
her  trousseau.  Paul  was  very  generous  with  his  money;  it  was 
evident  that  Grace  thought  him  too  generous.  Maggie  and 
Kathenne  went  together  to  buy  things,  and  Katherine  was  a 
darling.  Maggie  fancied  that  Katherine  was  not  quite  easy  in 
ijer  mind  about  her  share  in  the  affair. 

„-','7™,""°u  ^^-T  ^^J'^""  *°  ^'  "'"'y  exciting.  Maggie  dear, 
will  you?"  she  said.  "You'll  find  plenty  to  do  and  there  are  lots 
office  people,  Im  sure,  and  you'll  come  up  and  stay  -vitll  us 

"I  think  it  sounds  delightful,"  said  Maggie.  " If  you'd  lived 
for  years  in  St.  Dreot's,  Katherine.  you  wouldn't  talk  about  other 
places  being  dull.    It  isn't  excitement  I  want.     It's  work." 

,! 5°"'  '"'"  '"'  '^"'*  ''""y  you,"  said  Katherine. 

'Bully  me?  Grace?"  Maggie  was  very  astonished.  "Why 
shes  the  kindest  old  thing.     She  wants  me  to  do  everything"    ' 

'So  she  says,"  said  Katherine  doubtfully.  "But  she's  very 
jealous  of  Paul.  How  much  she'll  really  like  giving  up  her 
authority  when  it  comes  to  the  point  I  don't  know.  You  stick 
up  to  her.    Paul's  weak." 

"  I  don't  think  he  is."  said  Maggie  rather  indignantly.  "  Grace 
always  does  what  he  says." 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 


303 


"  Yes,  just  now,"  said  Katherine. 

And  Maggie  had  one  funny  little  conversation  with  Henry 
Trenchard.  That  wild  youth  catching  her  alone  one  day  said 
abruptly : 

"What  the  devil  have  you  done  it  for!" 

"Done  whati"  aslted  Maggie,  her  heart  beating  a  little  faster. 
Strangely  Henry  reminded  her  of  Martin.  He  alone  of  all  the 
Trenehards  had  something  that  was  of  that  other  world. 

"  Engaged  yourself  to  Paul."  said  Henry. 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  "  asked  Maggie. 

"  You  don't  lovo  him — of  course  you  couldn't.  You're  not  his 
sort  in  the  least.    You're  worth  a  million  Pauls." 

This  was  so  odd  for  Henry,  who  was  certainly  not  given  to 
compliments,    hat  Maggie  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Yes,  you  may  laugh,"  said  Henrj.  "I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.     Have  you  ever  seen  Paul  asleep  after  dinner  i " 

"  No."  said  Muggie. 

"  I  wish  you  had.  That  might  have  saved  you.  Have  you  ever 
seen  Grace  lose  her  temper?" 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  this  time  a  little  uneasily. 

"  Look  here,"  he  came  close  to  her,  staring  at  her  with  those 
eyes  of  his  that  could  be  very  charming  when  he  liked.  "  Break 
it  off.    Say  you  think  it's  a  mistake.    You'll  be  miserable." 

"  Indeed  I  shan't."  said  Maggie,  tossing  her  head.  "  Whatever 
happens  I'm  not  going  to  bo  miserable.  No  one  can  make  me 
that." 

"  So  you  think."  Henry  frowned.  "I  can't  think  wliat  you  "-int 
to  be  married  for  at  all.  These  days  women  can  have  such 
a  good  time,  especially  a  woman  with  character  like  you.  If  I 
weM  a  woman  I'd  never  marry." 

"  You  don't  understand,"  said  Maggie.  "  You  haven't  been 
lonely  all  your  life  as  I  have  id  you're  not  afraid  of  making 
yourself  cheap  and — and — look  j  for  some  one  who  doesn't  want 
—you.  It's  so  easy  for  you  to  talk.  And  Paul  wants  me— really 
he  does " 

"  Yes.  he  does,"  said  Henry  slowly.  "  He's  in  love  with  you  all 
right.     I'm  as  sorry  for  Paul  as  I  am  for  you." 

Maggie  laughed.  "  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  be  sorry,"  she  said, 
"  but  you  needn't  trouble.    I  believe  we  can  look  after  ourselves." 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  this  conversation  she  was  a 
little  uneasy.  He  was  a  clever  boy.  Henry;  he  did  watch  people. 
But  then  he  was  very  young.    It  was  all  guesswork  with  him. 

She  became  now  strangely  quiescent ;  her  energy,  her  individual- 


304 


THE  CAPTIVES 


If 'T 


ity,  her  strenifth  of  will  seemed,  for  the  time,  entirely  to  haTe 
gone.  She  surrendered  herself  to  Grace  and  Paul  and  Katherine 
and  they  did  what  they  would  with  her. 

Only  once  was  she  disturbed.  Two  nights  before  the  wedding 
she  dreamt  of  Martin.  It  did  not  appear  an  a  dream  at  all.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  asleep  and  that  she  suddenly 
woke.  She  was  gazing,  from  her  bed,  into  her  own  room,  but  at 
the  farther  end  of  it  instead  of  the  wall  with  the  rosy  trees  and 
the  gold  mirror  was  another  room.  This  room  was  strange  and 
cheerless  with  bare  boards,  a  large  four-poster  bed  with  faded  blue 
hangings,  two  old  black  prints  with  eightoenth-century  figures 
and  a  big  standing  mirror.  In  front  of  the  bed,  staring  into  the 
mirror,  was  Martin.  He  was  dressed  shabbily  in  a  blue  reefer 
coat.  He  looked  older  than  when  she  had  seen  him  last,  was 
stouter  and  ill,  with  white  puffy  cheeks  and  dark  shndows  under 
his  eyes.  She  saw  him  very  clearly  under  the  light  of  two  candles 
that  wavered  a  little  in  the  draught. 

He  was  staring  into  the  mirror,  absorbed  apparently  in  what 
he  saw  there.  She  cried  his  name  and  he  seemed  to  start  and 
turn  towards  the  door  listening.  Then  the  picture  faded.  She 
woke  to  find  herself  sitting  up  in  bed  crying  his  name.     .     .     . 

In  the  morning  she  drove  this  dream  away  from  her,  refusing 
to  think  of  it  or  listen  to  it,  but  somewhere  far  down  in  her 
soul  something  trembled. 

The  wedding  was  over  so  quickly  that  she  scarcely  realised  it. 
There  was  the  stuffy  little  church,  very  empty  and  dusty,  with 
brass  plates  on  the  wall.  She  could  hear,  in  the  street,  rumblings 
of  carts  and  the  rattle  of  wheels;  somewhere  a  barrel-organ  played. 
The  clergj-man  was  a  little  man  who  smiled  upon  her  kindly. 
When  Paul  put  the  ring  on  her  finger  she  started  as  thouglr  for 
a  moment  she  awoke  from  a  dream.  She  was  glad  that  he  looked 
so  clean  and  tidy.  Grace  was  wearing  too  grand  a  hat  with  black 
feathers.  In  the  vestry  Paul  kissed  her,  and  then  they  walked 
down  the  aisle  together.  She  saw  Katherine  and  Millie  and  Henry. 
Her  fingers  caught  tightly  about  Paul's  stout  arm,  but  she  would 
have  been  more  at  home  she  thought  with  Uncle  Mathew  just  then. 

It  was  a  nice  bright  spring  day,  although  the  wind  blew  the 
dust  about.  They  had  a  meal  in  Katherine's  house  and  some 
one  made  a  speech,  and  Maggie  drank  some  champagne.  She 
hoped  she  looked  nice  in  her  grey  silk  dress,  and  then  caught 
sight  of  herself  in  a  glass  and  thought  she  was  as  ever  a  fright. 

"  My  little  wild  thing — mine  now,"  wh'  pered  Paul.  She 
thought  that  rather  silly;  she  was  not  a  wild  thing,  but  simply 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF 


305 


Maggie  Cardinal.  Oh,  nol  Maggie  Trenchard.  ...  She  did 
not  feel  Maggie  Trenchard  at  all  and  she  did  not  suppose  that 
she  ever  would. 

They  were  to  have  a  fortnight  alone  at  Skeaton  hefore  Grace 
came.  Maggie  was  glad  of  that.  Paul  was  really  nicer  when  Grace 
was  not  there. 

They  were  all  very  kind  to  her.  They  had  given  ber  good 
presents — Millie  some  silver  brushes,  Henry  some  books,  Philip  a 
fan,  and  Katherine  a  most  beautiful  dressing-bag.  Maggie  had 
never  had  such  things  before.  But  she  could  have  wished  for 
something  from  her  own  people.  She  had  written  to  Uncle  Mathew 
but  had  not  heard  from  him. 

At  the  very  last  moment,  on  the  morning  of  the  wedding  day, 
a  present  came  from  the  aunts— an  old  box  for  handkerchiefs, 
The  cover  was  inlaid  with  sea-shells  and  there  was  a  little  looking- 
glass  inside. 

Very  soon  it  was  all  over  and  then  to  her  own  intense  surprise 
she  was  aloue  in  the  train  with  Paul.  What  had  she  expected? 
She  did  not  know — but  somehow  not  this. 

They  were  in  a  first-class  carriage.  Paul  was  doing  the  thing 
nobly.  He  sat  close  to  her,  his  broad  knee  against  her  dress. 
How  broad  his  knee  was,  a  great  expanse  of  black  shining  cloth. 
He  took  her  hand  and  rested  it  on  the  expanse,  and,  at  the  touch 
of  the  stuff  and  the  throb  of  the  warm  flesh  beneath  it,  she 
shivered  a  little  and  would  wish  to  have  drawn  her  hand  away. 
He  seemed  so  much  larger  than  she  had  expected;  from  his  knee 
to  his  high  shining  white  collar  was  an  immense  distance  and 
midway  there  was  a  thick  gold  watch-cbain  rising  and  falling 
as  he  breathed.    He  smelt  very  faintly  of  tooth-powder. 

But  on  the  whole  she  was  comfortable;  only  the  thin  gold  ring 
round  her  finger  felt  strange.  Deep  in  a  little  pocket  inside  her 
blouse  was  the  ring  with  the  three  little  pearls. 

"I  do  hope,  Maggie  darling,"  he  said,  "you  don't  think  it 
strange  our  not  going  somewhere  else  for  our  honeymoon.  My 
lads  will  be  expecting  me  back — I  was  kept  longer  in  London  than 
1  should  have  been — by  you,  you  little  witch.    My  witch  now " 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  urged  her  head  towards 
his  coat.  But  her  hat,  her  beautiful  hat  that  had  cost  so  much 
more  than  she  had  ever  spent  on  a  hat  before,  was  in  the  way. 
It  struck  into  his  chin.  They  were  both  uncomfortable  and 
then,  thank  heaven,  the  train  slowed  down;  they  were  at  a  station 
and  some  one  got  into  their  carriage,  a  stout  man,  all  newspaper 
and  creases  to  his  trouaera. 


1^ 


306 


THE  CAPTIVES 


!  ,! 


That,  in  the  circumstances,  was  a  great  relief  and  soon  Uaggie 
doied,  seeing  the  telegraph  wires  and  the  trees  like  waving  hands 
through  a  mist  of  sleep. 

As  she  fell  asleep  she  realiwd  that  this  was  only  the  second 
time  in  all  her  life  that  she  had  been  in  a  train.  Some  one 
bawled  in  her  ear  "  Skeaton  I  Skeaton  I "  and  she  looked  up  to 
find  a  goat-faced  porter  gazing  at  her  through  the  window.  She 
was  on  a  storm-driven  platform,  her  husband's  arm  was  through 
hers,  she  was  being  helped  into  an  old  faded  cab.  Now  they  were 
driving  down  a  hill,  under  a  railway-arch,  along  a  road  with  villas 
and  trees,  trees  and  villas,  and  then  villas  alone.  What  a  wind  I 
The  bare  branches  were  in  a  frenzy,  and  from  almost  every  villa 
blew  little  pennons  of  white  curtains.  "  They  like  to  have  their 
wmdows  open  any  way,"  she  thought.  Paul  said  very  little!  ho 
was  obviously  nervous  of  how  she  would  take  it  all.  She  took 
it  all  very  well. 

"  What  pretty  houses ! "  she  said.    "  And  here  are  the  shops  I " 

Only    a    few— a    sweet-shop,    a    grocer's,    a    stationer's    with 

Simpson's  Library"  on  the  door,  a  post-office. 

'*  The  suburbs,"  said  Paul. 

What  a  wind  I  It  rolled  up  the  road  like  a  leaping  carpet,  you 
could  almost  see  its  folds  and  creases.  No  one  about— not  a 
living  soul. 

"  The  cab  I  ordered  never  came.  Lucky  thing  there  was  one 
there,"  said  Paul. 

Not  a  soul  about.  Does  any  one  live  here?  She  could  not 
see  much  through  the  window,  and  she  could  hear  nothing  because 
the  glass  rattled  so. 

"Here  we  are!"  The  cab  stopped  with  a  jerk.  Here  they  were 
then.  A  gate  swung  to  behind  them,  there  was  a  little  drive 
with  bushes  on  either  side  of  it  and  then  the  house. 

Not  a  very  handsome  house,  Maggie  thought.  A  dull  square 
grey  with  chimneys  like  ears  ,n  exactly  the  right  places.  Some 
pieces  of  paper  were  whirled  up  and  down  by  the  wind,  they 
danced  about  the  horse's  feet.  She  noticed  that  the  door-handles 
needed  polishing.  A  cavernous  hall,  a  young  girl  with  untidy 
hair  and  a  yelping  dog  received  them. 

"  That's  Mitch ! "  said  Paul.  "  Dear  old  Mitch.  How  are  you, 
dear  old  fellow?    Down  Mitch!     Downl     There's  a  good  dog." 

The  young  girl  was  terrified  of  Maggie.  She  gulped  through 
her  nose. 

"  I've  put  tea  in  the  study,  sir,"  she  said. 

"Tea  at  once,  little  woman,  eh?"  said  Paul.    "I'm  dying  for 


PLUNGE  INTO  THE  OTHER  HALF  307 


That's  right.    Dear,  dear. 


tome.    Thank  you,  Emily.    All  well! 
It  15  nice  to  be  home  again." 

fJl1'J\  ""'""'"'"''  P"'  P'"!-     She  felt  a  great  tenderness 
for  him  but  she  could  not  say  the  right  words.    She  should  have 

r„'H  .11  n,!f.Tv  "' "  •"','  ""'•  ^''*  ■""  *•«'  ""  ""W  «■")  <l"k. 

and  all  over  the  house  windows  were  rattling 

They  went  straight  into  the  study.  What  a  room  I  It  reminded 
Maggie  at  once,  in  its  untidiness  and  discomfort,  of  her  fathers 
study,  and  that  thought  struck  a  chill  into  her  very  heart,  so  that 
Btie  bad  to  pause  for  a  moment  and  control  herself.  There  were 
piles  of  newspapers  heaped  up  against  the  shelves;  books  run  to 
the  ceiling,  old,  old  books  with  the  covers  tumbling  off  them  On 
the  stone  mantelpiece  was  a  perfect  littcr-old  pipes,  bundles  of 
letters  a  ball  of  string,  some  yellow  photographs,  a  crucifix  and 
a  small  plant  dead  and  shrivelled  in  its  pot. 

"  Now  then,  darling.    Hurrah  for  some  tea!  " 

She  poured  it  out  and  he  watched  her  in  an  ecstasy.  Strangely 
she  began  to  be  frightened  and  a  little  breathless,  as  though  the 
walls  of  the  room  were  slowly  closing  in.  The  tea  had  been 
standing  a  long  time,  it  was  very  strong  and  chill. 

The  house  was  a  firing-ground  of  rattle  and  whirs,  but  there 
were  no  human  sounds  anywhere.  There  was  dust  all  over  the 
room. 

They  had  said  nothing  for  some  time. 

He  spoke  suddenly,  his  voice  husky  and  awkward,  as  though  he 
were  trying  a  new  voice  for  the  first  time. 

"Maggie  I  "  he  said.    "  Don't  sit  so  far  away.    Come  over  here." 

She  crossed  over  to  him.  He,  with  an  arm  that  seemed  to 
be  suddenly  of  iron,  pulled  her  on  to  his  knee.  She  was  rebellious. 
Her  whole  body  stiffened.  She  did  not  want  this,  she  did  not 
want  this!  Some  voice  within  cried  out:  "Take  care!  Take 
care!  .      .He  pressed  her  close  to  him;  he  kissed  her 

furiously  savagely,  her  eyes,  her  mouth,  her  cheek.  She  could 
feel  his  heart  pounding  beneath  his  clothes  like  a  savage  beast 
His  hands  were  all  about  her;  he  was  crushing  her  so  that  she 
was  hurt,  but  she  did  not  feel  that  at  all;  there  was  something 

With  all  her  might  she  fought  down  her  resistance.  This  was 
her  duty  She  must  obey.  But  something  desolate  ind  utterly 
utterly  lonely  crept  away  and  cried  bitterly,  watching  her 
surrender. 


li 

m 


CHAPTER  in 


8EEATON-ON-8U 


SHE  VBB  twinging  higher,  higher,  higher— twinging  with 
that  delightful  rhythm  that  one  knows  best  in  dreams, 
lazily,  idly,  and  yet  witl  purpose  and  resolve.  She  was  swinging 
far  above  the  pain,  the  rebellion,  the  surrender.  That  was  left  for 
ever ;  the  time  of  her  tears,  of  her  loneliness  was  over.  Above  her, 
yet  distant,  was  a  golden  cloud,  soft,  iridescent,  and  in  the  heart 
of  this  lay,  she  knew,  the  solution  of  the  mystery;  when  she  reached 
it  the  puzzle  would  be  resolved,  and  in  a  wonderful  tranquillity 
she  could  rest  after  her  journey.  Nearer  and  nearer  she  swung; 
the  cloud  was  a  blaze  of  gold  so  that  she  must  not  look,  but  could 
feel  its  warmth  and  heat  already  irradiating  about  her.  Only  to 
know!  ...  to  connect  the  two  worlds,  to  find  the  bridge,  to 
destroy  the  gulf  I 

Then  suddenly  the  rhythm  changed.  She  was  descending  again ; 
slowly  the  cloud  diminished,  a  globe  of  light,  a  ball  of  fire,  a 
dazzling  star.  The  air  was  cold,  her  eyes  could  not  penetrate  the 
dark ;  with  a  sigh  she  awoke. 

It  was  early  morning,  and  a  filmy  white  shadow  pervaded  the 
room.  For  a  moment  she  did  not  know  where  she  was;  she  saw 
the  ghostly  shadows  of  chairs,  of  the  chest  of  drawers,  of  a  high 
cupboard.  Then  the  large  picture  of  "  The  Crucifixion,"  very,  very 
•dim,  reminded  Ver.  She  knew  where  she  was;  she  turned  and  saw 
her  husband  sleeping  at  her  side,  huddled,  like  a  child,  his  face 
on  his  arm,  gently  breathing,  in  the  deepest  sleep.  She  watched 
him.  There  had  been  a  moment  that  night  when  she  had  hated 
him,  hated  him  so  bitterly  that  she  could  have  fought  him  and 
even  killed  him.  There  had  been  another  moment  after  that, 
when  she  had  been  so  miserable  that  her  own  death  seemed  the 
only  solution,  when  she  had  watched  him  tumble  into  sleep  and 
had  herself  lain,  with  burning  eyes  and  her  flet  dry  and  hot, 
staring  into  the  dark,  ashamed,  humiliated.  Then  the  old  Maggie 
had  come  to  her  rescue,  the  old  Maggie  who  bade  her  make  the 
best  of  her  conditions  whatever  they  might  be,  who  told  her  there 
was  humour  in  everything,  hope  always,  courage  everywhere,  and 
that  in  her  own  inviolable  soul  lay  her  strength,  that  no  one  could 
liefeat  her  did  she  not  defeat  herself. 
308 


SKEATON-ON-SEA 


30» 


Now,  moat  atrangely,  in  that  eirly  light,  ahe  felt  a  great  tendcr- 
neu  for  him,  the  tendemesa  of  the  mother  for  the  child.  She  put 
out  her  hand,  touched  hia  ahoulder,  atroked  it  with  her  hand,  laid 
her  head  againat  it.  He,  murmuring  in  hia  aleep,  turned  towarda 
her,  put  hia  arm  around  her  and  oo,  in  the  ahadow  of  hia  heart, 
ahe  fell  into  deep,  dreamleaa  alumber. 

At  breakfast  that  morning  she  felt  with  him  a  strange  shyness 
and  confusion.  She  had  never  been  shy  with  him  before.  At  the 
very  first  she  had  been  completely  ot  her  case;  that  had  been  one 
of  his  greatest  attractions  for  her.  But  now  she  realised  that  she 
would  be  for  a  whole  fortnight  alone  with  him,  that  she  did  not 
know  him  in  the  least,  and  that  he  himself  was  strangely  embar- 
rassed by  his  own  discoveries  that  be  was  making. 

So  they,  both  of  them,  took  the  world  that  was  on  every  side  of 
them,  put  it  in  between  them  and  left  their  personal  relationship 
to  wait  for  a  better  time. 

Maggie  was  childishly  excited.  She  had,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  a  house  of  her  own  to  order  and  arrange;  by  the  middle  of 
that  first  afternoon  she  had  forgotten  that  Paul  existed. 

She  admitted  to  herself  at  once,  so  that  there  should  be  no  pre- 
tence about  the  matter,  thot  the  house  was  hideous.  "Yes,  it's 
hideous,"  she  said  aloud,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  dining- 
room  and  looking  about  her.  It  never  could  have  been  very  much 
of  a  houae,  but  they  (meaning  Paul  and  Orace)  had  certainly  not 
done  their  best  for  it. 

Uaggie  had  had  no  education,  she  had  not  perhaps  much  natural 
taste,  but  she  knew  when  things  and  people  were  sympathetic,  and 
this  house  was  as  unsympathetic  as  a  house  could  well  be.  To 
begin  with,  the  wall-papers  were  awful;  in  the  dining-room  there 
was  a  dark  dead  green  with  some  kind  of  pink  flower ;  the  drawing- 
room  was  dressed  in  a  kind  of  squashed  strawberry  colour;  the 
wall-paper  of  the  staircases  and  passages  was  of  imitation  marble, 
and  the  three  bedrooms  were  pink,  green,  and  yellow,  perfect 
horticultural  shows. 

It  was  the  distinctive  quality  of  all  the  wall-papers  that  nothing 
looked  well  against  them,  and  the  cheap  reproductions  in  gilt 
fram»,  the  religious  prints,  the  photographs  (groups  of  the  Rev. 
Paul  at  Cambridge,  at  St.  Ermand's  Theological  College,  with  the 
Skeaton  Band  of  Hope)  were  all  equally  forlorn  and  out  of  place. 

It  was  evident  that  everything  in  the  house  was  arranged  and 
intended  tb  stay  for  ever  where  it  was,  the  chairs  against  the  walls, 
the  ornaments  on  tlie  mantelpieces,  the  photograph-frames,  the 


310 


THE  CAPTIVES 


plu.h  m»t«,  the  bright  red  poti  with  fems,  the  Ions  blue  timi,  md 
yet  the  impression  wm  not  one  of  discipline  and  order.  Aunt 
Anne  s  house  had  been  i  ntidy.  but  it  had  had  an  odd  life  and 
a  mosphere  of  itr.  own.  This  house  was  dead,  utterly  and  com- 
pletely dead.  The  windows  of  the  dining-room  looked  out  on  to  a 
lawn  and  round  the  lawn  was  a  stone  wall  with  broken  glass  to  pro- 
tect  It.  'As  though  there  were  anything  to  steal!"  thought 
Maggie.  But  then  you  cannot  expect  a  garden  to  look  its  best  at 
the  beginning  of  April.  'Til  wait  a  little."  thought  Maggie. 
"And  then  I'll  make  this  house  better.    I'll  destroy  almost  every- 

./t°r'i.'°''^i;''  '"•'  "'''"  '  ""■'''"«  ^'"^  Maggie  penetrated 
the  kitchen.  Here  were  gathered  together  Alice  the  cook,  Emily 
ibi  housemaid,  and  Clara  the  between  maid. 

Alice  was  large,  florid,  and  genial.  Nevertheless  at  once  Maggie 
distrusted  her.  No  servant' had  any  right  to  appear  so  wildly  de- 
hghted  to  see  a  new  mistress.  Alice  had  doubtless  her  own  plans. 
Jimily  was  prim  and  conceited,  and  Clara  did  not  exist.  Alice 
was  ready  to  do  everything  that  Maggie  wanted,  and  it  was  very 
apparent  at  once  that  she  hod  not  liked  "  Miss  Grace." 

"Ah,  that'll  be  much  better  than  the  way  Miss  Grace  'ad  it. 
iluni.  In  their  jackets,  Mum,  very  well.  Certainly.  That  would 
be  better. 

"I  thinkyou'd  better  just  give  us  what  seems  easiest  for  dinner, 
bo'lind   "      M»«8'«'  ^""^y  handing  herself  over,  delivered  and 

"Very  well  Mum— I'm  sure  I'll  do  my  best,"  aaid  Alice. 

iarly  on  that  first  afternoon  she  was  taken  to  see  the  Church 
for  a  desperate  moment  her  spirits  failed  her  as  she  stood  at  the 
end  of  the  Lane  and  looked.  This  was  a  Church  of  the  newest  red 
brick,  and  every  seat  was  of  the  most  shining  wood.  The  East 
tnd  window  was  flaming  purple,  with  a  crimson  Christ  ascending 
™d  yellow  and  blue  disciples  amazed  together  on  the  ground. 
Faul  stood  flushed  with  pride  and  pleasure,  his  hand  through 
Moggie's  arm.  " 

♦!,"/«'''  •*  P«'*"k''*  window,"  he  said  with  that  inflection 
tstit  Maggie  was  already  beginning  to  think  of  as  "his  public 
voice. 

••Tm  afraid,  PanI  dear."  said  Maggie,  "I'm  very  ignoront." 
Dont  know  Partright?     Oh.  he's  the  great  man  of  the  last 
thirty  years-did  the  great  East  window  of  St.  Martin's,  Porte- 
fract     We  had  a  job  to  get  him  I  can  teU  you.    Just  look  at  that 
purple. 


8KEAT0N-0N-SEA 


ill 


"  On  the  right  you'll  see  the  Memorial  Tablet  to  our  briTe  lids 
who  fell  in  the  South  African  War—Dulet  tl  dtcorum  eil  pro 
pafn'a  fflort— very  appropriate.  Brare  fellows,  brove  fellows  t  Just 
behind  you,  Maggie,  is  the  Micklcham  Font,  one  of  the  finest  speci- 
mens of  modem  stone-work  in  the  county— given  to  us  by  Sir 
Joseph  Mickleham— Micklcham  Hall,  you  know,  only  two  milea 
from  here.  He  used  to  attend  morning  service  hero  frequently. 
Died  five  years  ago.    Fine  piece  of  work  I " 

MagRie  looked  at  it.  It  was  enormous,  a  huge  battlement  of  a 
font  in  dead  white  stone  with  wreaths  of  carved  ivy  creeoins 
about  it.  J  >■    B 

"  It  makes  one  feel  rather  shivery,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Now  you  niU3t  see  our  lectern,"  said  Paul  eagerly. 

And  so  it  continued.  There  was  apparently  a  great  dcol  to  be 
said  about  the  Lectern,  and  then  about  the  Choir-.Scrccn.  and  then 
about  the  Rercdos,  and  then  about  the  Pulpit,  nnd  then  about  the 
Vestry.  ai.J  then  about  the  Collecting-Box  for  the  Poor,  and  then 
about  the  Hassocks,  and  finally  about  the  Oroveyard.  ...  To 
all  this  Maggie  listened  and  hoped  that  she  made  the  proper 
answers,  but  the  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  she  was  cold  and 
dismayed.  The  Chapel  had  been  ugly  enough,  but  behind  its  ugli- 
ness there  had  been  life;  no^  with  the  Church  as  with  the  house 
there  was  no  life  visible.  Paul,  putting  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
said: 

"Here,  darling,  will  be  the  centre  of  our  lives.  This  is  our 
temple.    Round  this  building  all  our  happiness  will  revolve." 

"  Yes.  dear,"  said  Maggie.  She  was  taken  then  for  a  little  walk. 
They  went  down  Ivy  Road  and  into  Skeaton  High  Street.  Here 
were  the  shops.  Mr.  Bloods,  the  bookseller's,  Tunstall  tb  >  butcher, 
Toogood  the  grocer.  Father  the  draper,  Minster  the  picture-dealer, 
Harcourt  the  haberdasher,  and  so  on.  Moggie  rather  liked  the  High 
Street;  it  reminded  her  of  the  High  Street  in  Polchester.  although 
there  was  no  hill.  Out  of  the  High  Street  and  on  to  the  Esplanade. 
You  should  never  see  an  Esplanade  out  of  the  seoson,  Katherine 
had  once  said  to  Maggie.  Thot  dictum  seemed  certainly  true  this 
time.  There  could  bo  no  doubt  that  this  Esplanade  was  not  looking 
its  best  under  the  blustering  March  wind.  Here  a  deserted  band- 
stand, there  a  railway  station,  here  a  dead  haunt  for  pierrots,  there 
a  closed  and  barred  cinema  house,  here  a  row  of  stranded  bathing- 
machines,  there  a  slmttcrei'  tea-house— and  not  a  living  soul  in 
sight.  In  front  of  them  was  a  long  long  stretch  of  sand,  behind 
them  to  right  and  left  the  huddled  tenements  of  the  town,  in  front 
of  them,  beyond  the  sand,  the  grey  sea— and  again  not'  a  living 


ns 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Mral  in  liffht.    The  nllwiy  line  wound  if  wty  tt  thrir  liib,  lorinff 
itMlf  in  the  hilli  lad  woodi  of  the  horiion. 

"There  ere  not  many  people  (bout,  iro  there t"  itid  IfifCie. 
Nor  conld  the  wonder.  The  Eut  wind  cut  alone  the  deeolite 
•trelcbea  of  eilence,  end  yet  how  itrengo  ■  wind!  It  neemed  to 
here  no  effect  et  all  upon  the  aea,  which  rolled  in  ilucriihly  with 
anake-like  motion,  throwinf  up  on  the  dim  eolourleea  beach  a  thin 
frince  of  foam,  barinc  its  teeth  at  the  world  in  impotent  dii- 
content. 

"Oh I  there'!  a  boy!"  cried  UaRvie.  amazed  at  her  own  relief. 
"  How  often  do  the  trains  como  in  I "  the  anked. 

"  Well,  we  don't  have  many  trains  in  the  off-teaion,"  uid  Paul 
"  They  put  on  aereral  extra  onea  in  the  aummer." 

"  Oh,  what'e  the  aand  doing} "  Maggie  cried. 

She  had  eeen  aand  often  enough  in  her  own  Olebeahire,  but 
neTcr  aand  like  thii.  Under  the  influence  of  the  wind  it  waa 
blowing  and  curving  into  little  apirala  of  duatj  a  sudden  cloud, 
with  a  kind  of  personal  animosity  rose  and  flung  itaelf  across  the 
rails  at  Maggie  and  Paul.  They  were  choking  and  blinded— and 
in  the  distance  clouds  of  sand  rose  and  fell,  with  gusts  and  im- 
pulses that  seemed  personal  and  alive, 

"What  funny  sandl"  said  Maggie  again.  "When  it  blo»Ti  !•: 
Olebeshire  it  blowa  and  there's  a  perfect  storm.    There's  a  atom. 

or  there  isn't.    Here "    She  broke  off.    She  could  see  that  Paul 

hadn't  the  least  idea  of  what  she  was  speaking. 

"  The  sand  is  alwaya  blowing  about  here,"  he  said.  "  Now  what 
•bout  tea?" 

They  walked  back  through  the  High  Street  and  not  a  aoul  was 
to  be  seen. 

"Does  nobody  live  here?"  asked  Maggie. 

"  The  population,"  said  Paul  quite  gravely,  "  ia  eight  thousand, 
four  hundred  and  fifty-four." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Maggie. 

They  had  tea  in  the  dusty  study  again. 

"  I'm  going  to  change  this  house,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Change  it  ? "  asked  Paul.    «  What's  my  little  girl  going  to  do  ? » 

"  She's  going  to  destroy  ever  so  many  things,"  said  Moggie. 

"You'd  better  wait,"  said  Paul,  moving  a  little  away,  "until 
Grace  comes  back,  dear.    You  can  consult  with  her." 

Maggie  said  nothing. 

Next  day  Mrs.  Constantine,  Miss  Purves.  and  Mrs.  Maxse  came 
to  tea.    They  had  tea  in  the  drawing-room  all  amongst  the  squashed 


SKEATON-ONSEA 


n» 


itrawberrieo.  Tbrcr  UrRr  ferni  In  crimion  poti  wotchi'.  tlu-m  n* 
they  *tv.  Mnepif  ihoucht:  "Onn  K«mi  to  hivp  o  |.<*i<iDn  for 
ferna."  Sbv  bad  hnn  trrribi;  nerrcui  b«fore  tbr  lolim'  arriml 
— that  old  iM'TToDinoM  thiit  had  made  her  tremble  boforr  Aunt 
Anne  at  8t.  Dreot'a,  before  tbr  Warlre  k«,  beforr  old  Martbii.  Hnt 
with  it  came  as  olwaTa  her  B<'nM  of  indcfiendence  and  indivitltmlit;'. 

"  They  can't  eat  me,"  ahe  tbougbt.  It  w««  obyioua  at  nni'i'  thnt 
ther  did  not  want  to  do  anythioK  of  the  kind.  They  werp  full  nf 
kindneas  and  rurinMity.  Mra.  Constantino  took  the  lead,  and  it  wna 
plain  that  ahe  bad  been  doing  this  all  ber  life.  She  waa  a  Inrtrn 
black  and  red  woman  with  clothea  that  fittrd  her  likn  a  uniform. 
Her  boir  was  of  a  ravon  frieaming  blacknraa,  ber  rhecka  were  rrd, 
her  manner  ao  ainured  and  commanding  that  ahe  oeemcfl  to  MafTRie 
>t  once  like  a  policeman  directing  the  traffic.  The  poliwmnn  of 
Ghriatian  Skeaton  she  waa.  and  it  did  not  take  Maggie  two  minutes 
to  diacover  that  Paul  waa  afraid  of  ber.  Sbo  bad  a  deep  bass  vuicn 
■nd  a  hearty  laugh. 

"I  can  understand  her,"  thought  Maggie,  "and  I  believe  she'll 
understand  me." 

Very  different  Miss  Piirves.  If  Mrs.  Constantino  was  the  police- 
man of  Skeaton,  Miss  Purvea  was  the  town-crier.  She  rang  her 
bell  and  announced  the  news,  and  alao  insisted  that  you  should  tell 
her  wiOiout  delay  on,v  item  nf  neire  that  y(U  had  collected. 

In  appearance  she  was  like  any  old  maid  whose  love  of  fcussip  has 
led  her  to  abandon  her  appearance.  She  bad  obvioualy  surrendered 
the  idea  of  attracting  the  male,  and  flung  on  ber  clothes — an  old 
black  bat,  a  grey  coat  and  skirt — with  a  negligence  that  showed 
that  she  cared  for  worthier  things.  She  gave  the  impression  that 
there  waa  no  time  to  be  lost  were  one  to  gather  all  the  things 
in  life  worth  beoring. 

If  Mrs.  Constantino  stood  for  the  police  and  Miss  Purves  the 
town-crier.  Mrs.  Maxse  certoinly  represented  Society.  She  was 
dressed  beautifully,  and  she  must  have  been  very  pretty  once.  Her 
hair  now  was  grey,  but  her  cheeks  had  still  a  charming  bloom. 
She  was  delicate  and  fragile,  rustling  and  scented,  with  a  beautiful 
string  of  pearls  round  her  neck  (this,  in  the  daytime,  Maggie 
thought  very  odd),  and  a  large  black  hat  with  a  sweeping  feather. 
Her  voice  was  a  little  sad.  a  little  regretful,  as  though  she  knew 
that  ber  beautiful  youth  was  gone  and  wan  making  the  best  of 
what  she  hod. 

She  told  Maggie  that  "  she  couldn't  help  "  being  an  idealist. 

"  I  know  it's  foolish  of  me,"  she  said  in  her  gentle  voice,  smiling 
lijr  charming  smile.    "  They  all  tell  me  ao.    But  if  life  isn't  meant 


314 


THE  CAPTIVES 


to  be  beautiful,  where  are  wp?    F„.~4i,- 
mustn't  it.  Mrs'.  Tre^cha  d  aid  howTvero^n"'*  *'»/?,''  --"inff. 
all  we  are  only  human-we  mu,t  tZT  "^  fail-and  after 

the  best  in  people  J^cause^h™  tW  7  "'"""•  ^  ^""«  '"  »^i°8 
what  we  make  thei  d^t  yoSThiSc ?"  '  ""  *"  """•  ^^"^'^  "^ 
her  kinZc^rth:  '::TjtT  f  r-'^-  Nevertheless,  she  liked 
of  Martin  always  never  o  ZZtLTT\  ,!''"  ^'^"^  *»  *''*"'' 
think  of  the  life  that  was  cZlt^'  ^IV^^  """^  '™^  "»'  *» 
think  of  him  as  some  one  who  °;If  T^  ^"^  ^^^  ""'^  "^ver 
all  this  present  lirwouTdt°im;tib?X°„d°  '  **""  ™^^  ''^«'" 
th,s  new  existen..  not  only  po^^bTe  bu  Vceessf  u1  Thl'/  '^'l" 
w==i  building,  so  hard  as  she  could  fhw  ^"™?^'^'"'-  therefore  she 
rising,  the  rooms  were  nren»-T'»  ■    '""^'^  *'"'  "^"^  "<■■* 

doors  were  locked  ZTJ  t  '  ^"^  '""''°''  "««  ha"ed.  the 
thing  thaTbel  nged  to  ^ZpS  Grfcf  t.^' p"!"  T"'  ""-^  -^'^- 
Skeaton  itself,  her  hou  ehold  dutf/,?.;  ^''"'■''''  *•■«'«  "'<'™<^''. 
every  one  was  pressed  Tntoservce'  sV'"T:  '"'^'"''^  '""^ 
do  that  she  could  not  think  she  Z„  rt  ""'*  """^  f"  °'"'=''  ♦» 
that  she  could  not  want  any  oneeTsl^'^Lrot?;  """  't  '°  ""'='' 
kept  out.  no  sound  nor  sii^ht  ™e  else-that  other  world  must  be 

could  forget  Martin  What  hid  J"'*/'l*"i.  '  "  "  «  "^°  '^o 
whatever  I  am,  whateveri  dn  vf  -if,"^  '"  ^"-  "P">mim  me 
had  promised.  Here  Ihe  wf s 'jr  ■'''.  V*"^"  T  "'""y^'-and  she 
more  than  ever!  As  she  iXd  «  mI'^^'"'  '"?'^  '»""»  ^"^^ 
what  she  would  say  dd  she  know  t^.  ^""''"f  "^  '^^  ''<»><'"«'» 
deceived  Paul.  .  She  hadTold  t-    N%""'*^».  «he  had  not 

right.  She  would  foce  this  Hfe  to  tivT  ^he  would  make  this 
and  friends  and  a  pkc^  n  he  world  TT  '/''''*  "he  needed,  work 
her  struggle  to  keen  her  h  .     j-  ^^"^  ^^''^  "  ''"'e  white  with 

She  was"! fraid  tZ  she  did  nof nW°?i,  '\^  *"™^''  '°  ''"  «"«''- 
felt  as  though  she  were  dI«v  .^tfr.  ^  q.!^*  '"""'''  "^"^  "e"-  She 
had  heard  KatherinTMark  u^  „H  I  ^l  '^"^'^'^  ^^'''''  »hat  she 
She  suspected  that  thfv  tt     v*  u^     "^""^"^  ^'  '"'"■''^'f  f"  doi^S  so. 

Mrs.  CoLtantitlook^'a'   ht  ^shrrt^K^ih  "'  '""  '"""'' '^''' 

Afterwards,   when  she  told   P»?,I  fif-     T      ^""^  ™'P''^'™- 
fortable.  '^  ^*"'  *'''■'''  l"*  was  rather  uncom- 

"t^I'T"  '^i'""*  °,^°''''  ^^"-  "»»'t  it?"  he  said 
,,  Don  t  you  like  .t  short  then  ?  "  she  asked. 

therf/  W^Toi^t  Itt^t'otem'd-ff'  "".  T^™  »"  ^^  ~'.  » 
darling?"     ''°°"'°°'  *»  ^eem  different  from  other  people,  do  w^ 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie.     "We  want  to  be  ourselves.    I 


SKEATON-ON-SEA 


315 


don't  think  I  shall  ever  grow  my  hair  long  again.    It's  so  much 

more  comfortable  like  this." 
"If  I  ask  you,  dear,"  said  '.  .ul. 

''No.  not  even  if  you  ask  n  ,"  'he  ansveer.  J,  laughing 
She  noticed  then,  for  the  Ji^s,  time,  tht ;  he  could  look  sulky 

like  a  small  school-boy.  ' 

^"^1',m""'.'"v ''*.'"'''•  ""  y""  '""'^d  *°  K^ow  «  beard  I 
shouldn  t  like  it,  but  I  shouldn't  dream  of  stopping  you." 

That's  quite  different."  he  answered.    "I  should  never  dream 

of  growing  a  beard.    Grace  won't  like  it  if  you  look  odd  " 

"Grace  isn't  my  teacher,"  said  Haggle  with  a  sudden  hot  hos- 
tility that  surprised  herself. 

She  discovered,  by  the  way,  very  quickly  that  the  three  ladies 
had  no  very  warm  feelings  for  Grace.  They  showed  undisguised 
pleasure  at  the  thought  that  Maggie  would  now  be  on  various  Com- 
mittees instead  of  her  sister-in-law. 

■.r"^t,"'"'  ^^  ''°"''  P'"''^'  °*  <^o^rse,  as  wife  of  the  vicar,"  said 
Mrs.  Constantine.    "  Hitherto  Miss  Trenchard " 

"  Oh,  but  I  couldn't  be  on  a  Committee,"  cried  Maggie     "  I've 

never  been  on  one  in  my  life.    I  should  never  know  what  to  do." 

Never  been  on  a  Committee!"  cried  Miss  Purves.  quivering 

with  interest.    "Why,  Mrs.  Trenchard,  where  have  you  been  all 

this  time?" 

"I'm  only  twenty,"  said  Maggie.  They  certainly  thought  it 
strange  of  her  to  confess  to  her  age  like  that.  "  At  home  father 
never  had  any  Committees,  he  did  it  all  himself,  or  rather  didn't 
do  it. 

Mrs.  (^nstantine  shook  her  head.    "  We  must  all  help  you  "  she 

!v-  ■  .1°,?  '^  "^^  y°""*'  ™y  <^™'">  f"'  tbe  responsibilities  of 
this  parish." 

"  Yes.  I  am,"  said  Maggie  frankly.  «  And  I'll  be  very  glad  of 
anything  you  can  tell  me.  But  you  mustn't  let  me  be  Treasurer 
or  Secretary  of  anything.  I  should  never  answer  any  of  the 
letters,  and  I  should  probably  spend  all  the  money  myself." 

"  My  dear,  you  shouldn't  say  such  things  even  as  a  joke  "  said 
Mrs.  Constantine. 

"But  it  isn't  a  joke,"  said  Maggie.  "I'm  terribly  muddle- 
headed,  and  I  ve  no  idea  of  money  at  all.  Paul's  going  to  teach 
me. 

P""!  smiled  nervously. 

II  Maggie  will  soon  fit  into  our  ways,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  sure  she  will."  said  Mrs.  Constantine  very  kindly,  but  as 
though  she  were  speaking  to  a  child  of  ten. 


J  "I 


I    1 


■!     li 


I: ;« 


i 

316 


THE  CAPTIVES 


The  bell  rang  and  Mr.  Flaunders  the  curate  came  in     H^  ... 

.howed  siKns  of  transferrins,  that  adoration  to  M^sie  ^ 

"Misa  Trenchard's  aplendid,"  he  said      "T  A^    t    ■      i. 
but  ^u'll  be  a  great  hel?  to  us'all    r^'t  glad  y  uVeTn,.'"  "' 

"Ah,  one  can  tell,"  said  Mr.  Flaunders,  sighing. 

He  seeded  now  to  have  lost  altogettrta"  ^  "^d  '■trhe"''"Thfn 
tTm?,  72  ^"^  of  Grace's  return  the  storm  broke.  It  was  tea 
time  and  they  were  having  it,  as  usual,  in  his  dustv  study  Thev 
the  fi^^Zr-TT"^.  apart-Pnul  in  the  old  leather  armcba,>  by 
ft'p^cktd'^afd  p^ev^isr  ^'^-^  °"''  '-'^  "=^-^"'  «°°d-humour^^ 
Maggie  stood  up,  looking  at  him. 
"  Paul,  what's  the  matter ! "  she  asked. 

Matter,"  he  repeated.    "  Nothing  " 
I'S^  ^jf'  *'?  '^-   ■   •  You're  cross  with  me." 
No,  I  m  not.     What  an  absurd  idea ! "     He  moved  reatWW 
turmnj,  h  ,f  ,„„^.^^  ^^  ^^^  cfme X  up  to  Mm 

"Look  here.  Paul.    There  «  something  the  matter     W^  hlwt 


SKBATON-ON-SEA 


31T 


been  msnied  a  fortnight  yet  and  you're  unhappy.  Whatever  else 
we  married  for  we  married  because  we  were  going  to  be  friends. 
So  you've  just  got  to  tell  me  what  the  trouble  is." 

"I've  got  my  sermon  to  prepare,"  he  said,  not  looking  at  her, 
but  half  rising  in  his  chair.    "  You'd  better  go.  darling." 

"I'm  not  going  to,"  she  answered,  "until  you've  told  me  why 
you're  worrying." 

He  got  up  slowly  and  seemed  then  as  though  he  were  going  to 
pass  her.  Suddenly  he  turned,  6ung  his  arms  round  her,  catching 
her,  crushing  her  in  his  arms,  kissing  her  wildly. 

"  Love  .  .  .  love  me  .  .  .  love  me,"  he  whispered.  "  That's 
what's  the  matter.  I  didn't  know  myself  before  I  married  you, 
Maggie.  All  these  years  I've  lived  like  a  fish  and  I  didn't  know 
it.  But  I  know  it  now.  And  you've  got  to  love  me.  You're  my 
wife  and  you've  got  to  love  me." 

She  would  have  given  everithing  that  she  had  then  to  respond. 
She  felt  an  infinite  tenderness  and  pity  for  him.  But  she  could 
not.  He  felt  that  she  could  not.  He  let  her  go  and  turned  away 
from  her.  She  thought  for  a  moment  wondering  what  she  ought 
to  say,  and  then  she  came  up  to  him  and  gently  put  her  hand  on 
hia  shoulder. 

"  Be  patient,  Paul,"  she  said.  "  You  know  we  agreed  before  we 
married  that  we'd  be  friends  at  any  rate  and  let  the  rest  come. 
Wait.  ..." 

"  Wait  1 "  he  turned  round  eagerly,  clutching  her  arm.  "  Then 
there  is  a  chance,  Maggie  ?  You  can  get  to  love  me — you  can  forget 
that  other  man  ? " 

She  drew  back.  "  No,  you  know  I  told  you  that  I  should  never 
do  that.  But  he'll  never  come  back  nor  want  me  again  and  I'm 
very  fond  of  you,  Paul— fonder  than  I  thought.  Don't  spoil  it 
all  now  by  going  too  fast " 

"  Going  too  fast ! "  he  laughed.  "  Why,  I  haven't  gone  any  way 
at  all.  I  haven't  got  you  an.vwhere.  I  can  hardly  touch  you. 
You're  away  from  me  all  the  time.  You're  strange — different  from 
every  one.  .   .   . 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  women.  I've  learnt  a  lot  about 
myself  this  week.    It  isn't  going  to  be  as  easy  as  I  thought." 

She  went  up  to  him,  close  to  him,  and  said  almost  desperately: 

"We  mwtt  make  this  all  right,  Paul.  We  can  if  we  try.  I 
know  we  can." 

He  kissed  her  gently  with  his  old  kindness.  «  What  a  baby  you 
are.  You  didn't  know  what  you  were  in  for.  .  .  .  Ob,  we'll  make 
it  all  right." 


318 


:!;l 


THE  CAPTIVES 


that  they  would  „o  longer  be  alone       "^       *■  ^''*  "  '''"^  "^  «'i'f 

.h^''Lrda,?Ma«;re'Ld"be:n'j    k'-'T  '"^  ">-«"-»  «» 
with  dread.     There  was  no  ifi^^"^  ^""""'^  '"  """  ^''^t 
Graee  had  been  kTndne  s  i  sel    a"d  haT^b  '"'  '"T  '"  ^O'''''"' 
Maggie.     Within  the  last  w^k  shs  h„H        •""  "'"''  ''*'"^''»°  f<" 
tionatc  letters.     What  wa    tl!^  then    tltfT'""  '71  ''"^  ''^^^ 
was  in  the  very  air  of  the  bn,',!        .    u   ^""^  *""*  hovered?    It 
Grace  had  left  her  mark  ^Dorev""''..'^'  ''"'^"'  ""-^  ">«  ?'»« 
.^Pon  the  meagre  persrof  S  ZC'^""' -T'  °"^'  "™ 
a  miserable  creeping  fox-terrier  with  „        .^."^''"''"y  "Pon  Mitch, 
tremble  all  over  when  you  canedbL      TTj""^  «  ♦'^"dency  to 
to  Maggie,  which  was  siran«  tj, »        "'  .'"'■"^  ^''"'^^^  himself 
interested  in  her.     llftch  follow!?!  °"'u""''  ""''  "<>•'  «'  «  ™Ie. 
with  a  yellow  supplieaingXeShtd'.'  f,''™*'  '""'''n^  "P  at  her 
be  glod  when  Grace  coCteThiml         l'"''"  .''•'"  ""''  ^^-^  """M 
She  realised,  in  the  way  thatThe  h»d l''"'  ^"^'"'^  *>«  *"""'''«? 
Bose,  that  Grace  was  goi°g   o  affe/t  ^he     V.  T'"fJ"'^"  "-"^  '■^' 

--.  here  in  S..J.Tt!ZT.---^Zr/:^ 

thJZ:.  'sLrdlsr™r:rsm\lfat^"-^H  ?^  '"^  *-^-  ^" 
piled  pell-mell  a  number  of  nhnTni  I  '  "Jl''  '"*°  *'=  ^-^  had 
cushions,  worsted  mats  and  cht.^"^''  "^''^  "■P^d^ctions, 
S.ily  and  with  a  sense  of  clearitghraT"""  ^'^  ^"'^  "^^^  •' 
'' W:,ri^To^&«  ^■'er^  not  so  sure. 

Ms^lt'drn^r::^t;t;^"r;b'^'  r «"--  ^^-^  ^ 

There  was  thfrattle  of  fbJA     J'^^*  '"^  '^""^'^  "  ^"eer." 
later  Grace  was  in  Jhe  halS  °°  *'  '''"^  """^  "  "'<'»»t 

"Dear  Paul-Maggie,  dear.  .   .     " 

an^3hKd'rm?nL"£^r;l-;':f^r%  «^  -  ™ 

Shi.  !,"*.  ■"",'  """-"^  her  af^^ougt  they  L''  h  '"''''  ''^^  **» 
She  had  her  large  amiable  smile  and  tb.?-     1    ™,°  *="*  "  """d- 


"Now  I  think  mbne 


tea  at  once  without  taking  my  hat 


off. 


SKBATON-ON-SEA  319 

.ng  Cross  and  then !    Whyl    Here's  the  study!  Vane, I 

uTntTI-lZ  "f  ""'I  ^*-'"    ^'""''  "«^'-     Why'  the;e'; 
teal     I  hat,  right.     Everything  just  as  it  was.     Fancy! 

ft„T     "*  •'"gloves,  smiled,  seated  herself  more  comfortably 

Paul   rlTJ^^°V^"'  '^1  ™°>-    Suddenly  there  came:  "Why; 
Paul,  where  s  the  Emmanuel  football  group?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Maggie  felt  her  heart  give  a 
little  bump,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  right  against  the  roof  nf  L^ 
mouth.    Paul  (so  like  him)  had  not  noticed'hat  the  foo  ball toup 

the^''"''  °""'  •   •   •  ^  ^""'^  ^^^^    ^  °""  ""ti^d  it  wasn't 
mZlto^aKt^l^  ^X--"^  ^^°->'  *--  were  too 

eyes  flashed  about  from  place  to  place  all  around  the  room 
I  J^Lciy  "7  ^""^  i  'r-    """  "''^'    As  I  was  saying, 
\ft^T.y         ^^  ^'"^^  ^"''  *"''  w^'"''  «  P"'"-    J"st  fancy 
At  least  there  .^<„  a  porter,  an  old  man,  but  when  I  beckoned  to 

?  w,i'7°"  !  '"°™-.  T'"'  ^  ""^  ""^'y-  I  ^"o  te'l  you,  Paul 
L™  M-,^r?i?  V°  '.'"•"•'  *.'"'*•  ^°  !-"''«'  "'<^«  i^ni,  dear!  f  never 
knew  Mitchell's  had  jam  like  this!"  ^  never 

"I  didn't  get  it  at  Mitchell's,"  said  Maggie.    "I've  changed  the 

Oh,  Maggie!"  said  Paul.    "You  should  have  told  me!" 
Wiy!     said  Maggie,  bewildered.    "  Father  never  minded  about 

Well,  well     said  Gr.ice,  her  eyes  still  flashing  about  like  gold- 
fish m  a  pool.     "You  didn't  know.  dear.     Of  course  you  dfdn't 

ti™  man'Vr  ""*  'f  "*'''I"'*?  *^^'^''^"'  ''"'■''"''''  »■«'«  «  '^nsi- 
back     Well   T  ll?n-"^  ■"■"  '°  ♦•>''  """"in^-    I  «"•  glad  I'm 

^e  portTr^"  ^°^  ^"" ^"""^  was  I!  .   .   .  about 

Something  drove  Maggie  to  say: 


i  • 


i 

v 

1 1 


320  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  I'd  rather  haye  a  good  grocer  who's  a  dissenter  than  a  bad  one 

who  goes  to  church " 

"Maggie,"  said  Paul,  "you  don't  know  what  you're  saying 
You  don  t  realise  what  the  effect  in  the  parish  would  be." 

"  Of  course  she  doesn't,"  said  Grace  consolingly.  "  She'll  under- 
stand in  time.  As  I  was  saying,  I  was  so  angry  that  I  caught  the 
old  man  by  the  arm  and  I  said  to  him,  'If  you  think  you're  paid 
to  lean  up  against  a  wall  and  not  do  your  duty  you're  mightily 
mistaken,  and  if  you  aren't  careful  I'll  report  you-that's  what 
1 11  do,  and  he  said— what  were  his  exact  words  ?  I'll  remember  in 
a  minute.  I  know  he  was  very  insulting,  and  the  taxi-cabman— 
why,  Paul,  where s  mother's  picture?" 

Crace;s  eyes  were  directed  to  a  large  space  high  above  the 
mantelpiece.  Maggie  remembered  that  there  had  been  a  big  faded 
oil-painting  of  an  old  lady  in  a  shawl  and  spectacles,  a  hideous 
affair  she  had  thought  it.  That  was  now  reposing  in  the  attic. 
Why  had  she  not  known  that  it  was  a  picture  of  Paul's  mother? 
bhc  would  never  have  touched  it  had  she  known.  Why  had  Paul 
said  nothing?    He  had  not  even  noticed  that  it  was  gone. 

Paul  stared,  amazed  and  certainly— yea,  beyond  question- 
frightened. 

"Grace— upon  my  word— I've  been  so  busy  since  my  return » 

Is  that  also  in  the  attic?"  asked  Grace. 
"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Maggie.    "I'm  so  sorry.    I  never  knew  it  was 
your  mother.    It  wasn't  a  very  good  painting  I  thought,  so  I  took 
•      °^'r,       ^         known,  of  course,  I  never  would  have  touched 
it.    Oh  Grace.  I  am  so  sorry." 

"  It's  been  there,"  said  Grace,  "  for  nearly  twenty  years.  What 
I  mean  to  say  is  that  it's  always  been  there.  Poor  mother.  Are 
there  many  things  in  the  attic,  Maggie?" 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  feeble  scratching  on  the  door 
Paul,  evidently  glad  of  anything  that  would  relieve  the  situation 
opened  the  door. 

"Why,  it's  Mitch!"  cried  Grace,  forgetting  for  the  moment  her 
mother.  "Fancy!  It's  Mitch!  Mitch,  dear!  Was  she  glad  to 
see  her  old  friend  back  again?  Was  she?  Darling!  Fancy  seeing 
her  old  friend  again?    Was  she  wanting  her  back?" 

Mitch  stood  shivering  in  the  doorway,  then,  with  her  halting 
step,  the  skm  of  her  back  wrinkled  with  anxiety,  she  crossed  the 
room.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  then  with  shamefaced  terror, 
slunk  to  Maggie,  pressed  up  against  her,  and  sat  there  huddled,' 
staring  at  Grace  with  yellow  unfriendly  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IV 


NOT  in  a  day  and  not  in  a  night  did  Maggie  find  a  key  to  that 
strange  confusion  of  fears,  superstitions,  and  self-satisfac- 
tions that  was  known  to  the  world  as  Grace  Trenchard.  Perhaps 
she  never  found  it,  and  through  all  the  struggle  and  conflict  in 
which  she  was  now  to  be  involved  she  was  fighting,  desperately, 
in  the  duik.  Fight  she  did,  and  it  was  this  same  conflict,  bitter 
and  tragic  enough  at  the  time,  that  transformed  her  into  the 
woman  that  she  bov-ame  .  .  .  and  through  all  that  conflict  it  may 
be  truly  said  of  her  that  she  never  knew  a  moment's  bitterness — 
anger,  dismay,  loneliness,  even  despair — bitterness  never. 

It  was  not  strange  that  Maggie  did  not  understand  Grace; 
Grace  never  understood  herself  nor  did  she  make  the  slightest 
attempt  to  do  so.  It  would  be  easy  enough  to  cover  the  gro'ind  at 
once  by  saying  that  she  had  no  imagination,  that  she  never  went 
behind  the  thing  that  she  saw,  and  that  she  found  the  grasping 
of  external  things  quite  as  much  as  she  could  manage.  But  that 
is  not  enough.  Very  early  indeed,  when  she  had  been  a  stolid- 
faced  little  girl  with  a  hot  desire  for  the  doll  possessed  by  her 
neighbour,  she  had  had  for  nurse  a  woman  who  rejoiced  in  super- 
natural events.  With  ghost  stories  of  the  most  terrifying  kind 
she  besieged  Grace's  young  heart  and  mind.  The  child  had  never 
imagination  enough  to  visualise  these  stories  in  the  true  essence, 
but  she  seized  upon  external  detail — the  blue  lights,  the  white  shim- 
mering garments,  the  moon  and  the  church  clock,  tho  clanking 
chain  and  the  stain  of  blood  upon  the  board. 

These  things  were  not  for  her,  an  I  indeed  did  she  allow  her  fancy 
to  dwell,  for  a  moment,  upon  them  she  was  besieged  at  once  by 
so  horrid  a  panic  that  she  lost  all  control  and  self-possession.  She 
therefore  very  quickly  put  those  things  from  her  and  thenceforth 
lived  in  the  world  as  in  a  castle  surrounded  by  a  dark  moat  filled 
with  horrible  and  slimy  creatures  who  would  raise  a  head  at  her 
did  she  so  much  as  glance  their  way. 

She  decided  then  never  to  look,  and  from  a  vp7^  early  age  those 

quarters  of  life  became  to  her  "  queer,"  indecent,  and  dangerous. 

AU  the  more  she  fastened  her  grip  upon  the  things  that  she  could 

see  and  hold,  and  these  things  repaid  her  devotion  by  never  de- 

321 


t 


I 


322 


THE  CAPTIVES 


ill 


ceiving  her  or  pretending  to  be  what  they  were  not.  She  beliered 
intensely  in  forms  and  repetitions;  she  liked  everything  to  be 
where  she  expected  it  to  be,  people  to  say  the  things  that  she  ex- 
pected them  to  say,  clocks  to  strike  at  the  right  time,  and  trains 
to  be  up  to  the  minute.  With  all  this  she  could  never  be  called 
an  accurate  or  careful  woman.  She  was  radically  stupid,  stupid  in 
the  real  sense  of  the  word,  so  that  her  mind  did  not  grasp  a  new 
thought  or  fact  until  it  had  been  repeated  to  her  again  and  again, 
so  that  she  had  no  power  of  expressing  herself,  and  a  deep  inac- 
curacy about  everything  and  every  one  which  she  endeavoured  to 
cover  by  a  stream  of  aimless  lies  that  deceived  no  one.  She  would 
of  course  have  been  very  indignant  had  any  one  told  her  that  she 
was  stupid.  She  hated  what  she  called  "  clever  people  "  and  never 
had  them  near  her  if  she  could  help  it.  She  was  instantly  sus- 
picious of  any  one  who  liked  ideas  or  wanted  anything  changed. 
With  all  this  she  was  of  an  extreme  obstinacy  and  a  deep,  deep 
jealousy.  She  clung  to  what  she  had  with  the  tenacity  of  a  mol- 
lusc. What  she  had  was  in  the  main  Paul,  and  her  affection  for 
him  was  a  very  real  human  quality  in  her. 

He  was  exactly  what  she  would  have  chosen  had  she  been  allowed 
at  the  beginning  a  free  choice.  lie  was  lazy  and  good-tempered 
so  that  he  yielded  to  her  on  every  possible  point,  he  was  absolutely 
orthodox  end  never  shocked  her  by  a  thought  or  a  word  out  of  the 
ordinary,  he  really  loved  her  and  believed  in  her  and  said,  quite 
truly,  that  he  would  not  have  known  what  to  do  without  her. 

It  seems  strange  then  that  it  should  have  been  in  the  main  her 
urgency  that  led  to  the  acquisition  of  Maggie.  During  the  last 
year  she  had  begun  to  be  seriously  uneasy.  Things  were  not  what 
they  had  been.  Mrs.  Constantino  and  others  in  the  parish  were 
challenging  her  authority,  even  the  Choir  boys  were  scarcely  so 
subservient  as  they  had  been,  and,  worst  of  all,  Paul  himself  was 
strangely  restive  and  unquiet.  He  talked  at  times  of  getting  mar- 
ried, wondered  whether  she,  Grace,  wouldn't  like  some  one  to  help 
her  in  the  house,  and  even,  on  one  terrifying  occasion,  suggested 
leaving  Skeaton  altogether.  A  momentary  vision  of  what  it  would 
be  to  live  without  Paul,  to  give  up  her  kingdom  in  Skeaton,  to 
have  to  start  all  over  again  to  acquire  dominion  in  some  new 
place,  was  enough  for  Grace. 

She  must  find  Paul  a  wife,  and  she  must  find  some  one  who 
would  depend  upon  her.  look  up  to  her,  obey  her,  who  would,  inci- 
dentally, take  some  of  the  tiresome  and  monotonous  drudgery  off 
her  shoulders.  The  moment  she  saw  Maggie  she  was  resolved; 
here  was  just  the  creature,  a  mouse  of  a  girl,  no  parents,  no  money, 


GRACE  823 

DO  appearance,  nothing  to  make  her  proud  nr  abovu  licrsclf.  some 
one  to  be  moulded  and  trained  in  the  way  she  should  Ro.  To  htr 
great  surprise  she  discovered  that  Paul  was  at  once  attracted  by 
Maggie:  had  she  ever  wondered  at  anything  she  would  have  won- 
dered at  this,  but  she  decided  that  it  was  because  she  herself  had 
made  the  suggestion.  Dear  Paul,  he  was  always  bo  eager  to  fall 
in  with  any  of  her  proposals. 

Her  mind  misgave  her  o  little  when  she  saw  that  he  wns  really 
in  love.  What  could  hi.  soir  in  that  plain,  gauche,  uncharniing 
creature?  See  something  ho  undoubtedly  did.  However,  that 
would  wear  off  very  quickly.  The  Skeaton  atmosphere  was  against 
romance  and  Paul  was  too  lazy  to  be  in  love  very  long.  Once  or 
twice  in  the  weeks  before  the  wedding  Grace's  suspicions  were 
aroused. 

Maggie  seemed  to  be  an  utter  little  heathen;  also  it  appeared 
that  she  had  had  some  strange  love  affair  that  she  had  taken  so 
seriously  as  actually  to  be  ill  over  it.  That  was  odd  and  a  little 
alarming,  but  the  child  was  very  young,  and  once  married — there 
she'd  be,  so  to  speak! 

It  was  not,  in  fact,  until  that  evening  of  her  arrival  in  Skeaton 
that  she  was  seriously  alarmed.  To  say  that  that  first  ten  minutes 
in  Paul's  study  alarmed  her  is  to  put  it  mildly  indeed.  As  she 
looked  at  the  place  where  her  mother's  portrait  had  been,  as  she 
stared  at  the  trembling  Mitch  cowering  against  Maggie's  dress, 
she  experienced  the  most  terrifying,  shattering  upheaval  since  the 
day  when  as  a  little  girl  df  six  she  had  been  faced,  as  she  had 
fancied,  with  the  dripping  ghost  of  her  great-uncle  William. 

Not  at  once,  however,  wn's  the  battle  to  begin.  Maggie  gave  way 
about  everything.  She  gave  way  at  first  because  she  was  so  con- 
fident of  getting  what  she  wanted  later  on.  She  never  conceived 
that  she  was  not  to  have  final  power  in  her  own  house;  Paul  had 
as  yet  denied  her  nothing.  She  moved  the  pictures  and  the  pots 
and  the  crochet  work  down  from  the  attic  and  replaced  them  where 
they  had  been— or,  nearly  replaced  them.  She  found  it  already 
rather  amusing  to  puzzle  Grace  by  changing  their  positions  from 
day  to  day  so  that  Grace  was  bewildered  and  perplexed. 

Grace  said  nothing — only  solidly  and  with  panting  noises  (she 
suffered  from  shortness  of  breath)  plodded  up  and  down  the  house, 
reassuring  herself  that  all  her  treasures  were  safe. 

Maggie,  in  fact,  enjoyed  herself  during  the  weeks  immediately 
following  Grace's  return.  Paul  seemed  tranquil  and  happy;  there 
were  no  signs  of  fresh  outbreaks  of  the  strange  passion  that  had 
so  lately  frightened  her.    Maggie  herself  found  her  duties  in  con- 


324 


THE  CAPTIVES 


nwtion  with  the  Church  and  the  houic  ei.ier  thin  iibe  had  ex- 
p«cted.  tvtiy  one  Memcd  v^ry  friendly.  Grace  chattered  on  with 
her  aimless  hiatoriei  of  unimportant  event,  and  potted  Maguio'. 
hand  and  amiled  «  great  deal.  Surely  ..U  «a.  very  weU.  Perhap. 
thia  wa.  the  life  for  which  Magpc  was  intended. 

.  mH.'vH  ."  "  'y*  ***'"• '°  ^  ''™  ""'^  f"int-even  Martin  wa. 
.little  hidden  and  my.teriou..  StronKcIy  .he  wa.  Klad  of  that- 
tho  only  way  th.  thi.  could  bo  carried  through  wa.  by  keeping 
the  other  out  of  it.  Would  tho  two  world,  mingloi  Would  , he 
face,  and  voice,  of  tho.e  spirit,  bo  «een  and  heard  again  ?  Would 
they  leave  Maggio  now  or  plan  to  .teal  her  back?  Tho  whole 
luture  of  her  life  depended  on  the  answer  to  that 
«5K."f""*j"'.r.  f '='''  f'"'  investigated  Skeaton  very'  thoroughly. 
She  found  that  her  Skeaton.  the  Skeaton  of  Fashion  and  tho 
Lharch.  was  a  veiy  small  affair  consisting  of  two  row.  of  villa. 
some  detached  hou.e.  that  trickled  into  the  country,  and  a  littlo 
clump  of  villas  on  a  hill  over  the  wa  beyond  the  town.    There  were 

TnH  Z"l  /"  ^{%'°t  ■■"  *"'''  '"  "^'^  '««'■""■"  of  Fashion 
and  the  lender,  of  ;  .-fifty  were  Mr..  C.nstantine.  Mrs.  Masse 
Miss  Purves.  a  ?(r, ,  empe.t  (a  large  black  tragic  creature) 
and  Mis.  Grace  Trenchard-and  they  had  for  their  male  .upporter. 

frhli  R^erend  Paul.  Maggie  discovered  that  the  man- 
ner.,  habits,  and  even  voices  and  gestures  of  this  sacred  Fifty  were 
all  the  same.  The  only  question  upon  which  they  divided  was 
one  of  residence.  The  richer  and  finer  division  spent  «=veral  weeks 
of  the  winter  abroad  in  places  like  Nice  and  Cannes,  and  the  power 
contmgent  took  their  holiday  from  Skeaton  in  the  summer  Tn 
Glebe.h.re  or  the  Lake  District.  The  Con.tantines  and  the  MaU° 
were  very  fine  indeed  because  they  went  both  to  Cannes  in  the 
winter  and  Scotland  ir  the  summer.  It  was  wonderful,  consider- 
ing how  often  Mrs.  Constantine  was  away  from  Skeaton,  how 
solemn  and  awe-inspiring  an  impression  she  made  and  retained  in 
the  Skeaton  world.  Maggie  discovered  that  unless  you  had  a  large 
house  with  inde^ndent  grounds  outside  the  town  it  was  impossible 
to    remain   m    Skeaton    during   the    summer    months.      Oh  I    the 

oTh"  rt"  •  °^'"  *''\*^PI«'""  Yes.  they  were  terrible-^waT 
lowed  up  the  sands  eggshells,  niggers,  pierrots,  bathing-machines 
vulgarity,  moonlight  embracing,  noise,  sand,  and  dust.  If  vou 
were  any  one  at  all  you  did  not  stay  in  Skeaton  during  the  summer 
raonths-unless,  as  I  have  said,  you  were  so  grand  that  you  could 
tlisregard  it  altogether. 
It  happened  that  these  weeks  were  wet  and  windy  and  Maggie 


ORACE 


826 


«a>  blown  about  from  ono  end  of  the  town  to  the  other.  Tliero 
could  be  no  denying  that  it  waa  grim  and  ugly  under  theiic  condi- 
tiona.  It  might  be  that  when  the  spring  came  thrre  would  bo 
flowen  in  the  gardens  and  tho  trees  would  break  out  into  fresh 
green  and  the  sands  would  gleam  with  mother-of-pearl  and  the 
sea  would  glitter  with  sunshine.  All  that  perhapii  would  come. 
Meanwhile  there  was  not  a  houw  that  was  not  hideous,  the  wind 
tore  screaming  down  tho  long  beaches  carrying  with  it  a  flurry  of 
tempestuous  rain,  whilst  the  sea  itself  moved  in  sluggiah  oily  coils, 
dirt-grey  to  tho  grey  horizon.  Worst  of  all  perhaps  were  thi- 
deserted  buildings  at  other  times  dedicated  to  gaiety,  ghiwts  of 
places  they  were  with  torn  paper  flapping  against  their  sideii  oud 
tho  wind  tearing  at  their  tin-plated  roofs.  Then  there  wn»  the 
desolate  little  station,  having,  it  seemed,  no  connection  with  any 
kind  of  traffic — and  behind  all  this  the  woods  howled  otiI  creaked 
and  whistled,  derisive,  provocative,  the  only  creatures  alive  in  all 
that  world. 

Between  the  Fashion  and  the  Ploce  the  Church  stood  as  a  bridge. 

Centuries  ago,  when  Skeoton  had  been  the  merest  hamlet  clus- 
tered behind  the  beach,  the  Church  had  l)een  there — not  the  present 
building,  looking,  poor  thing,  as  though  it  were  in  a  perpetual  state 
of  scarlet  fever,  but  a  shabby  humble  little  chapel  close  to  the  sea 
sheltered  by  the  sandy  hill. 

The  present  temple  had  been  built  about  1870  and  was  considered 
very  satisfactory.  It  was  solid  and  free  from  draughts  and  took 
the  central  heating  very  well.  The  groveyard  also  was  new  and 
shiny,  with  no  bones  in  it  remoter  than  the  memories  of  the  present 
generation  could  compass.  The  church  clock  was  a  very  late  addi- 
tion— put  up  by  subscription  five  years  ago — and  its  clamour  was 
80  up  to  date  and  smart  that  it  was  a  cross  between  the  whistle  of 
a  steam-engine  and  a  rich  and  prosperous  dinner-belL 

All  this  was  rightly  felt  to  be  very  satisfactory.  As  Miss  Purves 
said:  "  So  far  as  the  dear  Church  goes,  no  ono  had  any  rijht  to 
complain  about  anything." 

When  Maggie  had  first  arrived  in  Skcaton  her  duties  with  regard 
to  the  Church  were  made  quite  plain  to  her.  She  was  expected  to 
take  one  of  the  classes  in  Sunday  school,  to  attend  Choir  practice 
on  Friday  evening,  tn  be  on  the  Committees  for  Old  Women's 
Comforts,  O'lr  Brave  Lads'  Guild,  and  the  Girls'  Friendly  Society, 
to  look  after  ''e  flowers  for  the  Altar,  ond  to  attend  Paul's  Bible 
Class  on  Wednesdays. 

She  had  no  objection  to  anv  "f  these  things — they  were,  after 


326 


THE  CAPIIVES 


I 


»n.  p.rt  of  her  "job."  She  found  that  they  imuMd  her  ind  h» 
[fe  mu.t  be  full,  full.  full.  "No  time  to  think-No  ?"m.  to 
think,    «,mo  ..tie  voice  f.r,  f.r  withiu  hor  cried.    But  on  G«ee'° 

ttr'.h""""'^?  V  ?"'»  ".'"«•     "'«•  '■"'•  hitherto!  dono"l 
thcK>  thinirs.    hho  had,  an  «he  called  it   "  PI.vkI  .  I..™      1  • 

the  life  of  our  Church."    She  waa't^ri'd  wi^^t^n   .    TheTboi? 

practic,  the  Committee,,  the  Altar  flower.,  and  the  re  t    *he  w« 

only  too  plea.ed  that  Maggie  .hould  do  the  hard  work-it  Zll 

quite  fair  that  ,h,.,  Ornee.  .hould  have  a  re.t.    At  the  .ame  t'm" 

-he  did  not  at  all  want  to  surrender  the  power  that  d'^ng  th^ 

but  Hho   wanted  her   to  .upport   the   burden-very  difficult    thii 
eapecally  ,f  you  are  not  good  at  "  thinking  thing,  out  '• 

Orace  never  could  "think  thing,  out."  It  «cemed  >.  i>io„„i, 
her  thoup',,,  loved  wilfully  to  tea^^and  confu«  he"  Then  wheS 
J^:  Z^Tl'^'V"""^'^-  »"''  hewilde^d,  her  temper  ro,e  "bwly 
atealthily.  but  w.,h  a  mighty  force  behind  it;  auddVnly  a,  a  aood 
burat,  the  wall,  that  have  been  trying  to  resist  it.  it  wou H  ,w^ 

^nictrictn  ri'ttlt-^Ider''  '""■=-'-  "— '^  '"^  «-^  »' 
She  then  would  "  lose  her  temper"  so  much  to  her  own  surcriiio 
that  she  at  once  decided  that  some  one  else  must  L  rlon?iw7 
A  few  day,  after  her  return  she  decided  that  she  "mTst  no  W 
these  hings  go,"  so  she  told  Maggie  that  she  would  atL^M. 
Committee  of  Old  Women's  Comforts  and  ^  reTp  '  ib,  'Tor  L 
t?,t  .l,"^  "t-  ^"'  T  ^"  '■''""•"  «"  'hese  function,  she  found 
that  she  was  bored  and  tired  and  cross;  they  were  really  intokr 
able,  she  had  been  doing  them  for  years  and  year,  and  Jears  It 
was  too  bad  that  Maggie  should  suffer  her  to  take  them  /n  htl 

ulL'lo.frZHrr'  """  ''"'  ^"'  "»  -Pc^ibilitie.":^ 

Grace  did  not  say  these  things,  but  she  thought  them.    She  did 

not  of  cour«.  admit  to  herself  that  she  wanted  Maggie  both  to  go 

ami  not  to  go.     She  simply  knew  that  there  was  a  "  ^ievance » 

tI^!  n"*  ?'''"  ?  '''^  "P^'^'y  developing  situation  wa.  Mr 
Toms  One  day  early  in  April  Maggie  went  for  a  little  walk  by 
herse  f  along  the  lane  that  led  to  Marsden  Wood.  M  r^den  Wood 
was  the  most  sinister  of  all  the  woods;  there  had  once  been  a 
murder  there,  but  even  had  there  not,  the  grim  bleakne"    of  the 


GRACE 


327 


tmi  and  buaha*.  the  abacncc  of  all  clear  pntha  throuRb  it*  tuiiKira 
and  thicketi  made  it  a  ainiitcr  place.  She  turned  at  the  very  e<lRe 
of  the  wood  and  «et  her  face  bock  towards  Skouton. 

The  day  bad  l)een  wild  and  windy  with  recurrent  thower^  of 
rain,  but  now  there  waa  a  break,  the  chilly  April  nun  broke  throuuh 
the  clouda  and  ncattercd  the  liedneii  iind  fields  wiih  primroiic  liithl. 
Faintly  and  with  a  gentle  rhythm  the  murmur  of  the  »m  lainc 
across  the  land  and  the  air  wna  nwcet  with  the  Btti-«ult  niiil  liio 
fre«h  »cent  of  the  gross  after  rain.  Moggie  »too<l  f.ir  u  mnrntnt, 
breathing  in  the  spring  air  and  wutehlng  the  wutery  blur  threncl 
it«  timid  way  through  biiuks  of  grey  cloud.  A  rich  gleam  uf  sun- 
light struck  the  path  at  her  feet. 

She  saw  then,  coming  towards  her.  a  man  and  a  woman.  The 
woman  was  ordinary  enough,  a  middle-aged,  prim,  stiffly  dressed 
person  with  a  pale  shy  face,  timid  in  her  walk  and  depresfed  in 
mouth  and  e.vcs.  The  man  was  a  stout,  short,  thiek-sit  fellow  with 
a  rosy  smiling  face.  At  once  Maggie  nolieeil  his  .smile,  lie  wna 
dressed  very  smartly  in  a  black  coat  and  wuist-e.uit  and  pepper- 
and-salt  trousers.  Ilia  bowler  was  cocked  a  little  to  one  side.  She 
passed  them  and  the  little  round  man,  looking  hor  full  in  the  fnce, 
smiled  so  happily  and  with  so  rndiant  an  amiability  that  she  was 
compelled  to  respond.    The  woman  did  not  look  at  her. 

Long  after  she  had  left  them  she  thought  of  the  little  men's 
emile.  There  was  something  that,  in  spite  of  herself,  reminded 
her  both  of  Uncle  Mathew  and  Martin.  She  felt  a  sudden  and 
warm  kinship,  something  that  she  had  not  known  since  her  arrival 
in  '"'  itin.  Had  she  not  struggled  with  herself  every  kind  of 
'"  ■  of  her  London  life  would  hnv2  come  crowding  about 

' '  ■  '         .'eting  was  like  the  first  little  warning  tap  upon  tho 

\'."ail.    .     .     . 

On  her  return  she  spoke  of  it. 

"Oh,"  said  Paul,  "that  must  have  been  poor  little  Mr.  Toma 
with  his  sister." 

"Poor? "asked  Miigw. 

"  Yes.  He's  queer  in  his  head,  you  know,"  said  Paul.  "  Quite 
harmless,  but  he  has  the  strangest  ideas." 

Maggie  noticed  then  that  Grace  shivered  and  the  whole  of  her 
face  worked  with  an  odd  emotion  of  horror  and  disgust. 

"  He  should  have  been  shut  up  somewhere."  she  said.  "  It's  dis- 
graceful letting  him  walk  about  everjwhere  just  like  any  one 
else." 

"Shut  up!"  cried  Maggie.  "Oh,  rnl  I  don't  think  any  one 
ought  to  be  shut  up  for  anything." 


328 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"My  dear  Maggie  I "  said  Paul  in  his  fatherly  protecting  voice 
a^.f'I'.f "'*    ^^''"^  "''»*  "'"''<'  ''«™'"e  of  ns  all" 
T  J„„'*  1,  "      ^u"^"  ™P»''<«'«'y.  "  I'm  not  practical  of  course, 
iould'be'ruttV.  "'"'  '""'''  '"'  '"'  '  '"  <""-  ^^  -  0- 
"  Chut— chut "  said  Grace. 

lit?»T),^''  "'"""•  '■'"*•"  ""y  ""°  »  ™'y  "«*•«  thing,  but  very 
^tle  things  are  sometimes  of  great  importance.    Marriages  ha^ 

^^hufflr^  ""  an  irritating  cough  and  hapny  homes  r^ned  by 

1h  r„  ""'  }'^r"^  ^''"''  <=''"♦•"  f"  «  R««t  many  years 

and  to  many  ^ple.    It  expressed  scorn  and  contempt  and  LS 
a  vast  store  of  superior  knowledge.    Grace  herself  had  no   dea  tf 

X™'2;^".;r™'^,r;fc£,.t.7S^  Sri  s 

S«'?JfiV£ -JSTol-iS"'"' "'-  ^'- '-' "» 

wSl,'  !^  r!i\''  ^-  "\^''  """"^  *•>"  *»  "y  other  person, 
men^she  had  been  .n  the  house  a  few  days  she  said  To  her 

"Paul,  Maggie's  much  younger  than  I  had  supposed." 
'I Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  said  Paul. 

"Yes,  I  do.     She  knows  nothing  about  anything.     She's  been 
nowhere.    She's  seen  nobody.  .   .   .  Poor  child" 

wiks'liVomrf'"' sV*"'"  "  ''°''""°  *^''*  °^  °°"'  '^""""'  these  first 
weeKs,  adopted.     She  was  very,  very  kind  to  Maggie     As  shp  pi- 

a  Tol  '°  ^'^k^r-  **  """^  ™«  "'y  fondTher-she  was 
a  pood  girl.     At  the  same  time.  ...  Weill  ..   .  Mrs.  Mazse 

Tar^i^^f"""'  '^"f  ^^"'  f  °  •'"'•'y  '"'™  ■"■o™  -hat  he  wal 
?,o™^hf  ^"""f].  Carelessness  I  Strange  ideas  1  Someone 
from  the  centre  of  Africa  would  have  known  more  ...  and  so 
on      Nevertiieless,  she  was  a  good  girl.  .   .   .  Only  she  needed 

Proposed  to  call  on  his  sister.  Well,  one  couldn't  help  that  Miss 
Toms  was  a  regular  communicant.  .  .  .  Nevertheless  ...  she 
ttr  '^^r':^^'  "!■»  't.  Of  course,  she  had  known  all  kinds  of 
queer  people  in  London.  Paul  and  Grace  had  rescued  her.  The 
etrangest  people.  No,  Maggie  was  an  orphan.  She  had  an  uncle, 
Grace  believed,  and  two  aunts  who  belonged  to  a  strange  sect, 
hex?    No,  sect.    Very  queer  altogether." 

Mrs.  Maxse  went  home  greatly  impressed. 

I^The  girl's  undoubtedly  queer,"  she  told  her  husband. 

fri  Jh.  .-rfk^Ql*"*  °  ?!"*'  ""■'  "^  "'^^'"  Colonel  Maxse  told  his 
friends  in  the  Skeaton  Conservative  Club.    "He  rescued  her  from 


QHACE 


329 


some  odd  sort  of  life  in  London.    No.    Don't  know  what  it  was 
exactly.    Always  was  a  bit  soft,  Trenchard." 

Maggie  had  no  idea  that  Skeaton  was  discussing  her.  She 
judged  other  people  by  herself.  Meanwhile  something  occurred 
that  gave  her  quite  enough  to  think  about. 

She  had  understood  from  Grace  that  it  was  expected  of  her 
that  she  should  be  at  home  on  one  afternoon  in  the  week  to  receive 
callers.  She  thought  it  a  silly  thing  that  she  should  sit  in  the 
ugly  drawing-room  waiting  for  people  whom  she  did  not  wish  to 
see  and  who  did  not  wish  to  see  her,  but  she  was  told  that  it  was 
one  of  her  duties,  and  so  she  would  do  it.  No  one,  however,  had 
any  idea  of  the  terror  with  which  she  anticipated  these  Friday 
afternoons.  She  had  never  been  a  very  great  talker,  she  had 
nothing  much  to  say  unless  to  some  one  in  whom  she  was  inter- 
ested. She  was  frightened  lest  something  should  happen  to  the 
tea,  and  she  felt  that  they  were  all  staring  at  her  and  asking  them- 
selves why  her  hair  was  cut  short  and  why  her  clothes  didn't  fit 
better.    However,  there  it  was.    It  was  her  duty. 

One  Friday  afternoon  she  was  sitting  alone,  waiting.  The  door 
opened  and  the  maid  announced  Mrs.  Purdie.  Maggie  remembered 
that  she  had  been  told  that  Mr.  Alfred  Purdie  was  the  richest 
man  in  Skeaton,  that  he  had  recently  married,  and  was  but  now 
returned  from  his  honeymoon. 

Mrs.  Purdie  entered  and  revealed  herself  as  Caroline  Smith. 
For  a  moment,  as  Maggie  looked  upon  that  magnificent  figure,  the 
room  turned  about  her  and  her  eyes  were  dim.  She  remembered, 
as  though  some  one  were  reminding  her  from  a  long  way  off,  thai 
Caroline  had  once  told  her  that  she  was  considering  the  acceptance 
of  a  rich  young  man  in  Skeaton. 

She  remembered  that  at  the  time  she  had  thought  the  coincidence 
of  Caroline  and  Paul  Trenchard  strange.  But  far  stronger  than 
any  such  memory  was  the  renewed  conviction  that  she  had  that 
fate  did  not  intend  to  leave  her  alone.  She  was  not  to  keep  the 
two  worlds  apart,  she  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  forget. 

The  sight  of  Caroline  brought  Martin  before  her  so  vividly  that 
she  could  have  cried  cut.  Instead  she  stood  there,  quietly  waiting, 
and  showed  no  sign  of  any  embarrassment. 

Caroline  was  dressed  in  peach-coloured  silk  and  a  little  black 
hat.  She  was  not  confused  in  the  least.  She  seized  Maggie's  hand 
and  shook  it,  talking  all  the  time. 

"  Well  now,  I'm  sure  you're  surprised  to  see  me."  she  said,  "  and 
perhaps  you're  not  too  glad  either.    Alfred  wanted  to  come  too. 


>'\' 


330 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I 


r.«,„n  •/  ^*'j  Jrenchard's  got  a  grievance,  and  with  8ome 
reason,  too,  so  you'd  better  let  me  manage  it  alone  the  first  meet- 
ing' Wasn't  I  right?  Of  course  I  was.  And  you  can  lust^rav 
J»^l'  ?!!**°""':  ^l^^t-.^'^'fy  what's  in  your  mind.  It's  not  my 
fault  that  we're  both  in  the  same  town.  I'm  sure  you'd  much 
rather  never  set  eyes  on  me  again,  and  I'm  sure  I  can  quite  under- 
stand If  you  feel  1  ke  that.    But  there  it  is.     I  told  you  long  ago 

abo^f"^?"'!?''*/'^"''  T'lf,'"  "«■  """^  I  ^"^  '°  two  minds 
about  it-b.^  of  course  I  didn't  dream  you  were  going  to  marry 
a  parson.  You  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  less  than  a 
feather  when  I  saw  ,t  in  the  Skeaton  News.  'That  can't  be  mv 
Margaret  Cardinal'  I  said,  and  yet  it  seemed  so  strange  the  two 
names  and  all.  Well,  and  then  I  found  it  really  »a/the  same 
I  «>a.  astonished.  Tot.  of  all  people  the  wife  of  a  parson  I  How- 
ever, you  know  your  own  mind  best,  and  I'm  sure  Mr.  Trenehard's 
a  very  lucky  man  So  you  can  just  start  off  and  curse  me,  Maggie 
as  much  as  you  like."  -"""BK":, 

The  strange  thing  was  that  as  Maggie  listened  to  this  she  felt 
a  desire  to  embrace  rather  than  curse.  Of  course  Caroline  had 
done  her  harm,  she  had,  perhaps  ruined  Martin's  life  as  well  as 
her  own,  but  the  mistake  had  been  originally  Maggie's  in  trusting 
.C  r  T\  ;5°'«/»"fi<J«""=«  than  her  volatile  nature  would 
allow  her  to  hold.  And  now,  as  she  looked  at  Caroline  and  saw 
that  pretty  pink  and  white  face,  the  slim  beautiful  body  the  grace 
and  gaiety,  and  childish  amiability,  her  whole  soul  responded 
Here  was  a  friend,  even  though  an  indiscreet  one,  here  was  some 
one  from  home  the  one  human  being  in  the  whole  of  Skeaton  who 

A^.  °l^  P  ol'  ^r"^  •''*  °"  P^P'^'  *''«  Chapel,  and  the  aunts 
-and  Martm.  She  knew  at  once  that  it  would  have  been  far 
safer  had  Csrolme  not  been  there,  that  the  temptation  to  discuss 
Martm  would  be  irresistible,  that  she  would  yield  to  it,  and  that 
Caroline  was  m  no  way  whatever  to  be  trusted-^he  reahsed  all 
these  things,  and  yet  she  was  glad. 

T  "  ^  ^n"u    u""'  •'"  ""'^  ^°"'  Caroline,"  said  Maggie.    "  Sit  down. 
J*/  Z:  ^  ."\?  a  minute.    I  was  very  unhappy  about  what  you 

<<'/?.l'  1  , '•  *  '''°*  *'"^  *»"  •""'•  <""^  I  was  to  blame  too." 
Oh  that  8  just  sweet  of  you,"  said  Caroline,  running  over  and 
giving  Maggie  an  impulsive  kiss.  "  I  said  to  Alfred,  '  Maggie  may 
be  angry.  I  don't  know  how  she'll  receive  me,  I'm  sure  She  had 
the  sweetest  nature  always,  and  it  isn't  like  her  to  bear  a  grudge 
But  whatever  way  it  is,  I'll  have  to  take  it,  because  the  fact  is  I 


deserve  it.'    But  there  you  arc,  simply  an'gelic  and  I 


m  ever  so 


GRACE 


331 


-llad.  The  fact  is  I  was  ridicilous  in  thos*-  days.  I  don't  wonder 
you  lost  your  patience  with  me,  and  it  was  just  like  your  honest 
self  to  be  so  frank  with  me.  But  marriage  has  just  taught  me 
everything.  What  I  say  is,  every  on  ought  to  be  csarried ;  no  one 
knows  anything  until  they're  married.  It's  amazing  what  a  dif- 
ference it  makes,  don't  you  think  so  ?  Why,  before  I  was  married 
I  used  to  chatter  on  in  the  most  ridicilous  way  (Caroline  always 
said  ridicilous)  and  now— but  there  I  go,  talking  of  myself,  and 
it's  you  I  want  to  hear  about.    Now,  Maggie,  tell  me " 

But  the  sudden  entrance  of  Grace  and  Paul  checked,  for  tho 
moment,  these  confidences.  Caroline  did  not  stay  long  this  first 
time.  She  talked  a  little,  drank  some  tea,  ate  a  biscuit,  smiled  at 
Paul  and  departed.  She  felt,  perhaps,  that  Grace  did  not  approvs 
of  her.  Grace  had  not  seen  her  before,  certainly  she  would  not 
approve  of  the  peach-coloured  dress  and  the  smile  at  Paul.  And 
then  the  girl  talked  too  much.  She  had  interrupted  race  in  the 
middle  of  one  of  her  stories. 

When  Caroline  had  departed  (after  kissing  Maggie  affection- 
ately) Grace  said : 

"And  so  you  kne^,  her  before,  Maggie?" 

"I  knew  her  in  London,"  said  Maggie. 

"  I  like  her,"  said  Paul.    "  A  bright  young  creature." 

"Hum I"  said  Grace. 

That  was  a  wonderful  spring  evening,  the  first  spring  evening 
of  the  year.  The  ugly  garden  swam  in  a  mist  faintly  cherry- 
colour;  through  the  mist  a  pale  evening  sky,  of  so  rich  a  blue  that 
it  was  almost  white,  was  shadowing  against  a  baby  moon  sharply 
gold.  The  bottles  on  the  wall  were  veiled  by  the  evening  mist;  a 
thrush  sang  in  the  little  bush  at  the  end  of  the  lawn. 

Paul  whispered  to  Maggie :  "  Come  out  into  the  garden." 

She  went  with  him,  frightened;  she  could  feel  his  arm  tremble 
against  her  waist;  his  cold  hard  fingers  caught  hers.  No  current 
ran  from  her  body  to  his.    They  were  apart,  try  as  she  may. 

When  they  huJ  talked  the  length  of  the  lawn  he  caught  her  close 
to  him,  put  his  hand  roughly  up  to  her  neck  and,  bending  her  head 
towards  his,  kissed  her.    She  heard  his  words,  strangled  and  fierce. 

"  Love  me,  Maggie — love  me — ^you  must " 

When  he  released  her,  looking  back  towards  the  dark  house,  she 
saw  Grace  standing  there  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand. 

Against  her  will  she  shared  his  feeling  of  guilt,  as,  like  children 
caught  in  a  fault,  they  turned  hack  towards  the  house. 


CHAPTER  V 

the  battle  of  skeaton 

First  Year 

AFTERWARDS,  when  Maggie  looked  back  she  was  baffleA 
Sbe  tried  to  disentangle  the  events  between  that  moment 
when  Grace,  holding  the  lamp  in  her  hand,  blinked  at  them  as  they 
came  across  the  lawn,  and  that  other  mos*  awful  m.  ment  when,  in 
Paul's  study,  Grace  declared  final  and  irrevocable  war. 

Between  those  two  events  ran  the  history  of  more  than  two 

years,  and  there  was  nothing  stranger  than  the  way  that  the  scene 

in  the  garden  and  the  scene  in  the  study  seemed  to  Maggie  to  be 

close  together.    What  were  the  steps,  she  used  to  ask  herself  after- 

wa:u:,  that  led  to  those  last  months  of  fury  and  tragedy  and  dis- 

aste        Was  it  my  fault?    Was  it  hersi    Was  it  Paul's?     What 

haptuued?    If  I  had  not  done  this  or  that,  if  Grace  had  not  said 

—no.  It  was  hopeless.    She  would  break  off  in  despair.    Isolated 

scenes  appeared  before  her,  always  bound,  on  either  side,  by  that 

prologue  and  that  finale,  but  the  scenes  would  not  form  a  chain 

She  could  not  connect;  she  would  remain  until  the  end  bewildered 

as  to  Grace's  motives.    She  never,  until  the  day  of  her  death,  was 

to  understand  Grace. 

"She  was  angry  for  such  little  things,"  she  said  afterwards. 

She  hated  me  to  be  myself."    The  two  years  in  retrospect  seemed 

to  have  passed  with  incredible  swiftness,  the  months  that  followed 

them  were  heavy  and  slow  with  trouble.    But  from  the  very  first, 

that  is,  from  the  moment  when  Grace  saw  Paul  kiss  Maggie  in 

the  evening  garden,  battle  was  declared.    Maggie  might  not  know 

it,  but  It  was  so— and  Grace  knew  it  very  well. 

It  may  be  said,  however,  in  Grace's  defence  that  she  gave  Maggie 
every  chance.  She  marvelled  at  her  own  patience.  For  two  years 
after  that  moment,  when  she  decided  that  Maggie  was  "queer," 
and  that  her  beloved  Paul  was  in  real  danger  of  his  losing  his  soul 
because  of  that  "  queemess,"  she  held  her  hand.  She  was  not  natu- 
rally a  patient  woman — she  was  not  introspective  enough  to  be 
that— and  she  held  no  brief  for  Maggie.  Nevertheless  for  two 
whole  years  she  held  her  hand.  .  .  . 
They  were,  all  three,  in  that  ugly  house,  figures  moring  in  the 
332 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR 


333 


dark.  Grace  simply  knew,  as  the  months  passed,  that  she  disliked 
and  feared  Maggie  more  and  more;  Paul  knev  that  as  the  months 
passed — well,  what  he  knew  will  appear  in  the  following  pages. 
And  Maggie!  She  only  knew  that  it  needed  all  her  endurance 
and  stubborn  will  to  force  herself  to  accept  this  life  as  her  life. 
She  must — she  must.  To  give  way  meant  to  run  away,  and  to 
run  awar  meant  to  long  for  what  she  could  not  have,  and  loneli- 
ness and  ."lefeat.  She  would  make  this  into  a  success;  she  would 
care  for  Paul  although  she  could  not  give  him  all  that  he  needed. 
She  would  and  she  could.  .  .  .  Every  morning  as  she  lay  awake 
in  the  big  double-bed  with  the  brass  knobs  at  the  bed-foot  winking 
at  her  in  the  early  licht  she  vowed  that  she  would  justify  her 
acceptance  of  the  man  who  lay  sleeping  so  peacefully  beside  her. 
Poor  chiH.  her  'nattle  with  Grace  was  to  teach  her  how  far  her 
will  and  triJurance  could  carry  her.  .   .   . 

Grace,  on  her  side,  was  not  a  bad  woman,  she  was  simply  a 
stupid  one.  She  disliked  Maggie  for  what  seemed  to  her  most 
admirable  reasons  and,  as  that  dislike  slowly,  slowly  turned  into 
hatred,  her  self-justification  only  hardened. 

Until  that  moment,  when  she  saw  a  faded  patch  of  wall-paper 
on  the  wall  instead  of  her  mother's  portrait,  she  had  no  doubts 
whatever  about  the  success  of  what  she  considered  her  choice. 
Maggie  was  a  "  dear,"  young,  ignorant,  helpless,  but  the  very  wife 
for  Paul.  Then  slowly,  slowly,  the  picture  changed.  Maggie  was 
obstinate,  Maggie  was  careless,  Maggie  was  selfish,  idle,  lazy, 
irreligious — at  last,  Maggie  was  "  queer." 

Then,  when  in  the  dusk  of  that  summer  evening,  she  saw  Paul 
kiss  Maggie,  as  the  moths  blundered  about  her  lamp,  her  stolid 
unimaginative  heart  was  terrified.  This  girl,  who  was  she?  What 
had  she  been  before  they  found  her?  What  was  this  strange  pas- 
sion in  Paul  isolating  him  from  her,  his  sister?  This  girl  was 
dangerous  to  them  all — a  heathen.  They  had  made  a  terrible 
mistake.  Paul  had  been  from  the  first  bewitched  by  some  strange 
spell,  and  she,  his  sister,  bad  aided  the  witch. 

And  yet,  to  her  credit  be  it  remembered,  for  two  years,  she 
fought  her  fears,  superstitions,  jealousies,  angers.  That  can  have 
been  no  easy  thing  for  a  woman  who  had  always  had  her  own  way. 
But  Maggie  helped  her.  There  were  many  days  during  that  first 
year  at  any  rate  when  Grace  thought  that  the  girl  was,  after 
all,  only  the  simple  harmless  child  that  she  had  first  found 
her. 

It  was  so  transparently  clear  that  Maggie  bore  no  malice  against 
any  one  in  the  world,  that  when  sho  angered  Grace  she  did  so 


M 


'  ii 


\ 


334 


THE  CAPTIVES 


■IwOTS  by  accident,  never  by  plan— it  was  only  unfortunate  that 
the  accidents  should  occur  so  often. 

Maggie's  days  were  from  the  very  first  of  the  utmost  regularity. 
Breakfast  at  8.30,  then  an  interview  with  the  cook  (Grace  generally 
in  attendance  here),  then  shopping  (with  Grace),  luncheon  at  1.30, 
afternoon,  paying  calls  or  receiving  them,  dinner  7.45,  and  after 
dinner,  reading  a  book  while  Paul  and  Grace  played  bczique,  or, 
if  Paul  was  busy  upon  a  sermon  or  a  letter  (he  wrote  letters  very 
slowly),  patience  with  Grace.  This  regular  day  was  varied  with 
meetings,  choir  practices,  dinner-parties,  and  an  occasional  Penny 
Reading. 

In  this  framework  of  the  year  it  would  have  appeared  that 
there  was  very  little  that  could  breed  disturbance.  There  were, 
however,  little  irritations.  Maggie  would  have  given  a  great  deal 
could  she  have  been  allowed  to  interview  the  cook  in  the  morning 
alone. 

It  would  seem  impossible  to  an  older  person  that  Grace's  pres- 
ence could  so  embarrass  Maggie;  it  embarrassed  her  to  the  terrible 
extent  of  driving  every  idea  out  of  her  head. 

When  Maggie  had  stammered  and  hesitated  and  at  last  allowed 
the  cook  to  make  a  suggestion,  Grace  would  say.  "  You  mustn't 
leave  it  all  to  cook,  dear.    Now  what  about  a  nice  shepherd's  pie? " 

The  cook,  who  hated  Grace,  would  toss  her  head. 

"  Impossible  to-day.  Mum.  .   .    .  Quite  impossible." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  Maggie  would  say. 

This  was  the  cook's  opportunity. 

"  Well,  for  you.  Mum,  V\l  see  if  it  can't  be  managed.  Difficult 
as  it  is." 

Grace's  anger  boiled  over. 

"  That  woman  must  go,"  she  insisted. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Maggie. 

Cook  after  cook  appeared  and  vanished.    They  all  hated  Grace. 

"You're  not  very  good  at  keeping  servants,  are  you,  Maggie, 
dear?"  said  Grace. 

Then  there  was  the  shopping.  Grace's  conversation  was  the  real 
trouble  here.  Grace's  stories  had  seemed  rather  a  joke  in  London, 
soon,  in  Skeaton,  they  became  a  torture.  From  the  vicarage  to 
the  High  Street  was  not  far,  but  it  was  far  enough  for  Grace's 
narrative  powers  to  stretch  their  legs  and  get  a  healthy  appetite  for 
the  day's  work.  Grace  walked  very  slowly,  because  of  her  painful 
breathing.  Her  stout  stolid  figure  in  its  stiff  clothes  (the  skirt 
rather  short,  thick  legs  in  black  stockings  and  large  flat  boots), 
marched  along.    She  had  a  peculiar  walk,  planting  each  foot  on 


'    THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR        335 

the  ground  with  deliberate  determination  as  though  she  vera 
squashing  a  malignant  beetle,  she  was  rather  short-sighted,  but  did 
not  wear  glasses,  because,  as  she  said  to  Maggie,  "one  need  not 
look  peculiar  until  one  must."  Her  favourite  head-gear  was  a 
black  straw  hat  with  a  rather  faded  black  ribbon  and  a  huge  pin 
stuck  skewer-wise  into  it.    This  pin  was  like  a  dagger. 

She  peered  around  her  as  she  walked,  and  for  ever  enquired  of 
Maggie,  "  who  that  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  road."  Maggie,  of 
course,  did  not  know,  and  there  began  then  a  long  cross-questioning 
as  to  colour,  clothes,  height,  smile  or  frown.  Nothing  was  too 
small  to  catch  Grace's  interest  but  nothing  caught  it  for  long. 
Maggie,  at  the  end  of  her  walk  felt  as  though  she  were  beset  by  a 
whirl  of  little  buzzing  flies.  She  noticed  that  Paul  had,  from 
long  habit,  lea~nt  to  continue  his  own  thoughts  during  Grace's 
stories,  and  she  also  tried  to  do  this,  but  sho  was  not  clever  at  it 
because  Grace  would  suddenly  stop  and  say,  "Where  was  I, 
Maggie?"  and  then  when  Maggie  was  confused  regard  her  sus- 
piciously, narrowing  her  eyes  into  little  thin  points.  The  shop- 
ping was  difficult  because  Grace  would  stand  at  Maggie's  elbow 
and  say :  "  Now,  Maggie,  this  is  your  affair,  isn't  it  ?  You  decide 
what  you  want,"  and  then  when  Maggie  had  decided,  Grace  simply, 
to  show  her  power,  would  say :  "  Oh,  I  don't  think  we'd  better  have 
that.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  think  we'll  have  that.  Will  you  show  us 
something  else,  please!" — ami  so  they  had  to  begin  all  over 
again. 

Nevertheless,  throughout  their  first  summer  Maggie  was  almost 
happy;  not  quite  happy,  some  silent  but  persistent  rebellion  at  the 
very  centre  of  her  heart  prevented  her  complete  happiness.  What 
she  really  felt  was  that  half  of  her — the  rebellious,  questioning, 
passionate  half  of  her — was  asleep,  and  that  at  all  costs,  whatever 
occurred,  she  must  keep  it  asleep.  That  was  her  real  definite 
memory  of  her  first  year — that,  through  it  all,  she  was  wilfully, 
deliberately  drugged. 

Every  one  thought  Paul  very  strange  that  summer.  Mr. 
Flaunders,  the  curate,  told  Miss  Purves  that  he  was  very  "odd." 
"  He  was  always  the  most  tranquil  man — a  sunny  nature,  as  you 
know.  Miss  Purves.  Well  now,  I  assure  you,  he's  never  the  same 
from  one  minute  to  another.  His  temper  is  most  uncertain,  and 
one  never  can  tell  of  what  he's  thinking.  You  know  he  took  the 
Collects  in  the  wrong  order  last  Sunday,  and  last  night  he  read 
the  wrong  lesson.  Two  days  ago  he  was  quite  angry  with  me  be- 
cause I  suggested  another  tune  for  'Lead  Kindly  Light' — unlike 
himself,  unlike  himself." 


886 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"To  what  do  you  attribute  thia,  Mr.  Flaunders?"  taid  Mias 
Furres.    "  You  know  our  vicar  so  well." 

"  I'm  lure  I  can't  tell  what  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Flaunders,  sighinf . 

"  Can  it  be  hia  marriage  t "  said  Miss  Purvea. 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  Mr.  Flaunders,  flushing,  "  that  it  can  bo  noth- 
ing to  do  with  Mrs.  Trenchard.  That's  a  fine  woman,  Miss 
Purvea,  a  fine  woman." 

"  She  seems  a  little  strange,"  aaid  Miss  Purves.  "  Why  doesn't 
she  let  her  hair  grow?    It's  hardly  Christian  as  it  is." 

"  It's  her  health,  I  c-pect,"  said  Mr.  Flounders. 

Paul  was  very  gentlu  and  good  to  Moggie  all  that  summer,  better 
to  her  than  any  human  being  had  ever  been  before.  She  became 
very  fond  of  hira,  ond  yet  it  was  not,  apparently,  her  affection  that 
he  wanted.  He  seemed  to  be  for  ever  on  tlic  verge  of  asking  her 
some  question  and  then  checking  himself.  He  was  suddenly  silent; 
she  caught  him  looking  at  her  in  odd,  furtive  ways. 

He  mode  love  to  her  ond  then  suddenly  checked  himself,  going 
off,  leaving  her  alone.  During  these  mouths  she  did  everything  ehe 
could  for  him.  She  knew  that  she  was  not  satisfying  him,  because 
she  could  give  him  only  affection  and  not  love.  But  everything 
that  he  wanted  her  to  do  she  did.  And  they  never,  through  all 
those  summer  months,  had  one  direct  honest  conversation.  They 
were  afraid. 

She  began  to  see,  very  clearly,  hit  faults.  His  whole  nature  was 
easy,  genial,  and,  above  all,  lazy.  He  liked  to  be  liked,  and  she 
was  often  astonished  at  the  pleasure  with  which  he  received  com- 
pliments. He  had  a  conceit  of  himself,  not  as  a  man  but  as  a 
clergyman,  and  she  knew  that  nothing  pleased  him  so  much  as 
when  people  praised  his  "good-natured  humanity." 

She  saw  him  "play-acting,"  as  she  called  it,  that  is,  bringing 
forward  a  succession  of  little  tricks,  a  jolly  laugh,  an  enthusiastic 
opinion,  a  pretence  of  humility,  a  man-of-the-world  air,  all  things 
not  very  bad  in  themselves,  but  put  on  many  years  ago,  subcon- 
sciously as  an  actor  puts  on  powder  and  point.  She  saw  that  he 
was  especially  sensitive  to  lay  opinion,  liked  to  be  thought  a  good 
fellow  by  the  laymen  in  the  place.  To  be  popular  she  was  afraid 
that  he  sometimes  sacrificed  his  dignity,  his  sincerity  and  his  pride. 
But  be  was  really  saved  in  this  by  his  laziness.  He  was  in  fact 
loo  lazy  to  act  energetically  in  his  pursuit  of  popularity,  and  the 
temptation  to  sink  into  the  dirty  old  chair  in  his  study,  smoke  a 
pipe  and  go  to  sleep,  hindered  again  and  again  his  ambition.  He 
had,  as  so  many  clergymen  have,  a  great  deal  of  the  child  in  him. 
a  remoteness  from  actual  life,  and  a  tremendous  ignorance  of  the 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR 


:137 


rough-and-tumble  brutality  and  indecency  of  thinga.  It  liiul  nut 
been  ditHcult  for  Grace,  because  of  his  lazinesH,  his  childishncHS, 
and  his  harmlesa  conceited  good-nuturo  to  obtain  a  very  real  do- 
minion over  him,  and  until  now  that  dominion  had  never  seriously 
been  threatened. 

Now,  however,  new  impulses  were  stirring  in  his  soul,  Mappic 
saw  it,  Grace  saw  it.  before  the  end  of  the  summer  the  whole  porish 
saw  it.  lie  was  uneasy,  dissatisfied,  suffering  under  strange  moods 
whoso  motives  he  concealed  from  all  the  world.  In  his  sleep  ho 
cried  MapRie's  name  with  a  passion  that  wns  a  new  voice  in  him. 
When  she  awoko  and  beard  it  she  trembled,  and  then  lay  very 
Btill.  .   .   . 

And  what  a  summer  that  was !  To  Maggie  who  had  never,  even 
in  London,  mingled  with  crowds  it  was  an  incredible  invasion. 
The  invasion  was  incredible,  in  the  first  place,  because  of  the  sud- 
denness with  which  it  fell  upon  Skeaton.  One  day  Maggie  noticed 
that  announcements  were  pasted  on  to  the  Skeaton  walls  of  the 
coming  of  a  pierrot  troupe — "  The  Mig-Mags."  There  was  a  gay 
picture  of  fine  beautiful  pierrettes  and  fine  stout  pierrots  all  smil- 
ing together  in  a  semi-circle.  Then  on  another  boarding  it  was 
announced  that  the  Theatre  Royal.  Skeaton,  would  shortly  start  its 
summer  season,  and  would  begin  with  that  famous  musical  comedy, 
"  The  Girl  from  Bobo's." 

Then  the  Pier  Theatre  put  forward  its  claim  with  a  West  End 
comedy.  The  Royal  Marine  Band  announced  that  it  would  play 
(weather  permitting)  in  the  Pergola  on  the  Leas  every  afternoon, 
4.30-6.  Other  signs  of  new  life  were  the  Skeaton  Roller-Skating 
Rink,  The  Piccadilly  Cinema,  Concerts  in  the  Town  Hall,  and 
Popular  Lectures  in  the  Skeaton  Institute.  There  was  also  a  word 
here  and  there  about  Wanton's  Bathing  Machines,  Hutton'a 
Donkeys,  and  i'ilton  and  Rowe's  Char-a-bancs. 

Then,  on  a  sunny  day  in  June  the  invasion  began.  The  littlo 
railway  by  tl  e  sea  was  only  a  loop-line  that  connected  Skeaton 
with  Lane-on-Sea,  Frambell,  and  Hooton.  The  moin  London  line 
had  its  Skeaton  station  a  little  way  out  of  the  town,  and  the 
station  road  to  the  beach  passed  the  vicarage.  Mapgio  soon  learnt 
to  know  the  tiroes  when  the  excursion  trains  would  pour  their 
victims  on  to  the  hot,  dry  road.  Early  in  the  afternoon  was  one 
time,  and  she  would  see  them  eagerly,  excitedly  hurrying  to  the 
sea.  fathers  and  mothers  and  babies,  lovers  and  noisy  young  men 
and  shrieking  girls. 

Then  in  the  evening  she  would  see  them  return,  some  cross,  some 
too  tired  to  speak,  some  happy  and  singing,  some  arguing  and  dis- 


■JUS 


THE  CAPTIVES 


putinir,  babies  crjing— all  hurrying,  hurrying  lest  the  train  ihould 
be  miswd. 

At  firat  ihe  would  not  penetrate  to  the  beach.  She  undrratood 
from  Paul  and  Orace  that  one  did  not  go  to  the  bcauh  during 
the  aununer  months;  at  any  rate,  not  the  popular  beach.  There 
wo»  Merton  Sand  two  milea  away.  One  might  go  there  ...  it 
was  always  deavrted.  This  mysterious  "  one  "  fascinated  Madgie's 
imagination.  So  many  times  a  day  Grace  said  "Oh,  I  dun't 
think  one  ought  to."  Maggie  heard  again  and  again  about 
the  trippers,  "Oh,  one  must  keep  away  from  tliere,  you 
know." 

In  fact  the  Skeaton  aristocracy  retirrd  with  shuddering  gestures 
into  its  own  castle.  Life  become  horribly  dull.  The  Maxsis,  the 
Constantines,  and  the  remainder  of  the  Upper  Ten  either  went 
away  or  hid  themselves  in  their  grounds. 
Once  or  twice  there  would  be  a  tennis  party;  then  silence.  .  .  . 
This  summer  was  a  very  hot  one;  the  little  garden  was  stifling 
and  the  glass  bottles  cracked  in  the  sun. 

"  I  want  to  get  out.  I  want  to  get  out,"  cried  Maggie — so  she 
went  down  to  the  sea.  She  went  surreptitiously ;  this  was  the  first 
surreptitious  thing  she  had  done.  She  gaied  from  the  Promenade 
that  began  just  beyond  the  little  station  and  ran  the  length  of  the 
town  down  upon  the  sands.  The  beach  was  a  small  one  compared 
with  the  great  stretches  of  Merton  ond  Buquay,  and  the  space  was 
covered  now  so  thickly  with  human  beings  that  the  sand  wos 
scarcely  visible.  It  was  a  bright  afternoon,  hot  but  tempered  ■  :h 
a  little  breeze.  The  crowd  bathed,  paddled,  screamed,  made  .d- 
castles,  lay  sleeping,  flirting,  eating  out  of  paper  bags,  rf  ;  img, 
quarrelling.  Here  were  two  niggers  with  banjoes,  then  a  stout 
lady  with  a  harmonium,  then  a  gentleman  drawing  pictures  on  the- 
sand;  here  again  a  man  with  sweets  on  a  tray,  here,  just  below 
Maggie,  a  funny  old  woman  with  a  little  hut  where  ginger-beer  and 
such  things  were  sold.  The  noise  was  deafening;  the  wind  stirred 
the  sand  curiously  so  that  it  blew  up  and  about  in  little  wreaths 
and  spirals.  Everything  and  everybody  seemed  to  be  covered  with 
the  grit  of  this  fine  small  sand;  it  was  in  Maggie's  eyes,  nose,  and 
mouth  as  she  watched 

She  hated  the  place — che  station,  the  beach,  the  town,  and  the 
woods — even  more  than  she  had  done  before.  She  hated  the  place 
— but  she  loved  the  people. 

The  place  was  sneering,  self-satisfied,  contemptuous,  inhuman, 
like  some  cynical,  debased  speculator  making  a  sure  profit  out  of 
the  innocent  weaknesses  of  human  nature.     As  she  turned  and 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR        339 


looked  nhe  could  Mc  the  whole  ugly  town  with  the  (pire  of  St. 
John'i — P«ul'«  church,  niacd  Mlf-rightcously  aboTe  it. 

The  town  wai  lilce  a  prison  hemmed  in  by  the  dark  woods  and 
the  uily  tea.  She  felt  a  audden  terrified  cooaciouanesi  of  her  own 
imprisonment.  It  was  perhaps  from  that  moment  that  she  hegan 
to  be  definitely  unhappy  in  her  own  life,  that  she  realised  with  that 
sudden  inspiration  that  is  given  to  us  on  occasion,  how  hoxtilc 
Grace  was  becoming,  how  strange  and  unreal  was  Paul,  and  how 
far  away  was  every  one  else  1 

Just  below  her  on  the  sand  a  happy  family  played — some  babiea, 
two  little  boys  digging,  the  father  smoking,  his  bat  tilted  over  his 
eyes  against  the  sun,  the  mother  finding  biscuits  in  a  bag  for  the 
youngest  infant.  It  was  a  .  '•ij-  merry  family  and  full  of  laughter. 
The  youngest  baby  looked  up  and  saw  Maggie  standing  all  alone 
there,  and  crowed.  Then  all  the  family  looked  up,  the  boys  sus- 
pended their  digging,  father  tilted  back  his  hat,  the  mother  shyly 
smiled. 

Maggie  smiled  back,  and  then,  overcome  by  so  poignant  a  feeling 
of  loneliness,  tempted,  too,  almost  irresistibly  to  run  down  the 
steps,  join  them  on  the  sand,  build  castles,  play  with  the  babies, 
she  hurried  away  lest  she  should  give  way. 

"  I  must  be  pretending  at  being  married,"  she  thought  to  her- 
self. "  I  don't  feel  married  at  all.  I'm  not  natural.  If  I  were 
sitting  on  the  sand  digging  I'd  be  quite  natural.  No  wonder  Grace 
thinks  me  tiresome.  But  how  does  one  get  older  and  grown  up? 
What  is  one  to  do?" 

She  did  not  trust  herself  to  go  down  to  the  sands  again  that 
summer.  The  autumn  came,  the  woods  turned  to  gold,  the  sea  was 
flurried  with  rain,  and  the  Church  began  to  fill  the  horizon.  The 
autumn  and  the  winter  were  the  times  of  the  Church's  High  Fes- 
tival. Paul,  as  though  ho  were  aware  that  he  had,  during  these 
last  months,  been  hovering  about  strange  places  and  peering  into 
dark  windows,  busied  himself  about  the  affairs  of  his  parish  with 
an  energy  that  surprised  every  one. 

Maggie  was  aware  of  a  number  of  young  women  of  whom  before 
she  had  been  unconscious  Miss  Carmichael,  Misses  Mary  and 
.Tane  Bethel,  Miss  Clarice  Hendon,  Miss  Polly  Jones  .  .  .  some 
of  these  pretty  girls,  all  of  them  terribly  modern,  strident,  self- 
assured,  scornful,  it  seemed  to  Maggie.  At  first  she  was  frightened 
of  them  as  she  had  never  been  frightened  of  any  one  before.  They 
did  look  at  her,  of  course,  as  though  they  thought  her  strange, 
and  then  they  soon  discovered  that  she  knew  nothing  at  all  about 
life. 


1^ 


340 


THE  CAl'TIVES 


Their  two  chief  einploynicntt,  woven  in,  ••  it  wen,  to  the  web  of 
their  church  aiuiitaiK.r,  wire  I.uvi'  and  Macl(ury — tlirtution«, 
brolteii  cugUKeiiientM,  ret'uHulii.  ut*ci*ptaticcfl,  giul,  on  tiu'  other  Imnil, 
jolica  about  everybody  und  evtrytliinK.  Mukril'  aouu  dJHvuvertd  that 
(}raoo  wuit  uuu  uf  their  favourite  Aunt  Sailiet};  thiv  made  her  very 
iiii^^ry,  und  olie  tihuwed  so  plainly  her  indiftnatiun  on  the  tir«t 
>»'i'iiiiiun  of  their  wit  that  they  never  luuvhed  at  (Jrace  in  Maggie'a 
IM'e-'cnce  again. 

MiiKgie  felt,  affr  thia,  very  tender  and  aympathelic  tnwanls 
Grace,  until  aho  diacovered  that  her  good  sinter-in-law  wan  (|uiU' 
unaware  that  any  one  laughed  nt  her  and  would  have  refund  to 
believe  it  had  she  been  told.  At  the  aame  time  there  went  xtranKi'l.v 
with  thia  confidence  an  odd  perpetual  suspicion.  Uraci'  wis  fnr 
ever  un  guard  against  laughter,  and  nothing  made  her  more  in- 
dignant than  to  come  into  a  room  and  see  that  people  suildiiil.v 
ceased  tluir  conversation.  Maggie,  however,  did  try  this  iiituinn 
to  establish  friendly  relations  with  (Jrace.  It  seemed  tu  her  that  it 
was  the  little  things  that  were  against  the  friendliness  rather  than 
the  big  ones.  How  she  seriously  blamed  herself  for  an  irritation 
that  was  really  childish.  Who,  fur  instaneo,  a  grown  niiman  and 
married,  could  do  other  than  llanic  herself  for  being  irritated  by 
Grace's  habit  of  not  finishing  her  sentences.    Grace  would  say; 

"Maggie,  did  you  remember  to — oh  well,  it  doesn't  mutter " 

"Remember  what,  Grace?*' 

"  No,  really  it  doesn't  matter.    It  wos  only  that " 

"  But  Grace,  do  tell  me,  becaufle  otherwise  you'll  be  blaming  me 
for  something  I  ought  to  have  done." 

"  Blaming  .vou  I  Why,  Maggie,  to  hear  you  talk  any  one  would 
think  that  I  was  always  scolding  you.  Of  course  if  that's  what 
you  f.el " 

"  No,  no,  I  don't.  But  I'm  so  careless.  I  forget  thinss  so.  I 
don't  wont  to  forget  something  that  I  ought  to  do." 

"  Yes,  you  are  careless,  Maggie.  That's  quite  true.  It's  one  of 
your  faults." 

(kStrange  how  willing  we  are  ourselves  to  admit  a  fault  and 
irritated  when  a  friend  agrees  about  it  with  us.) 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  always  careless,"  said  Maggie. 

"Often  you  are,  dear,  aren't  you?  You  must  learn.  I'm  sure 
you'll  improve  in  time.     I  wonder  whether — but  no.  I  decided  I 

wouldn't  bother,  didn't  I!     Still  perhaps,  after  all No,  I 

daresay  it's  wiser  to  leave  it  alone." 

Another  little  thing  that  the  autumn  emphasised  was  Grace's 
inability  to  discover  when  a  complaint  or  a  remonstrance  was  de- 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON ;  FIRST  YEAR        341 

cently  (kccuMil.  One  i-veninit  Haul,  noinit  out  in  ii  liiirry,  ii»ki'il 
Mamtie  to  Itivc  (Iracr  the  m.»Kui[c  that  Evi'iiMoiig  wuuld  bi  ut  «.;10 
inntcnd  of  7  that  iln.v.  MiiKKic  furniit  to  n'nv  thf  niomogo  and 
Grace  arrived  at  the  Church  during  the  nadiug  of  th«'  nccond 
leiaon. 
"Oh  (irace,  I'm  «o  aorry!"  »aid  Mnuuic. 

"It  diwrni't  mattiT."  nil!  (Iruw,  "but  how  you  could  forucl. 
MapRii',  \»  m  Klranirel  Do  <'  .  not  to  forittt  thingt.  I  know  it 
worrii'n  I'linl.  For  mvwlf  I  ilon't  inrc,  ulthounh  I  do  value  punc- 
tuality mid  memory— t  do  ind.fd.     What  I  mean  ia  that  it  ian't 

(or  my  own  hoppines'<  that  I  mind " 

"  I  don't  want  to  forRut,"  »oid  Mamtio.  "One  would  think  to 
hear  you,  (iracc.  that  you  imoRine  I  like  forgettinu." 

"  RcBlly,  Mnreie."  said  (lra<e,  "  I  don't  think  tbat'a  quite  the 
way  to  aiKsak  to  me." 

And  again  and  again  throughout  the  long  winter  this  little 
cpiBode  fiifurcd.  .  ,    „     ,.u 

"  You'll  n  uKiubcr  to  be  punctual,  won't  you,  Maggie?    Not  lute 
the  time  nliiii  you  forgot  to  tell  me." 
"  You'll  forgive  me  reminding  you,  Maggie,  but  I  didn't  want  it 

to  be  like  the  time  you  forgot  to  give  mt " 

"Oh,  you'll  better  not  trust  to  Maggie,  Paul.     Only  the  other 

day  when  you  gave  her  the  message  about  Evensong " 

brace  meant  no  harm  by  this.  Her  mind  moved  slowly  and  was 
cntangleil  by  a  vast  quantity  of  useless  lumber.  She  wa«  really 
ehoeked  by  carelessness  and  inaccuracy  because  she  was  radically 
careless  and  inaccurate  herself  but  didn't  know  it. 

"  If  there's  one  thing  I  value  it's  order."  she  would  say,  but  in 
Btniggling  to  remember  superficial  things  she  forgot  all  esaentials. 
Her  brain  moved  just  half  aa  slowly  as  everything  else. 

That  winter  was  wnrm  and  muggy,  with  continuous  showers  of 
warm  rain  thiit  seemed  to  change  into  mud  in  the  air  as  it  fell. 

The  Church  was  tilled  with  the  clammy  mist  of  its  central 
heating.  Jlapgie.  as  she  fat  through  service  after  service,  watched 
one  headache  race  after  another.  The  air  was  full  of  headache; 
she  asked  once  that  a  window  might  be  kept  open.  "  That  would 
mean  Death  in  Skeaton.  You  don't  understand  the  Skeaton  air," 
said  Grace. 

"  That's  because  I  don't  get  enough  of  it,"  said  Maggie.  She 
found  herself  looking  back  to  the  Chapel  services  with  wistful 
regref .  What  had  there  been  there  that  was  not  hero  ?  Here  every- 
thing was  ordered,  nrranged,  in  decent  sequence,  in  regular  sym- 
metry and  progression.    And  yet  no  one  seeiued  to  Maggie  to  listen 


342 


THE  CAPTIVES 


to  what  they  were  saying,  and  no  one  thought  of  the  meaning  of 
the  words  that  they  used. 

And  if  they  did,  of  what  use  would  it  be!  The  affair  was  all 
settled;  heaven  was  arrayed,  parcelled  out,  its  very  streets  and 
courts  mapped  and  described.  It  was  the  destination  of  every  one 
in  the  building  as  surely  as  though  they  were  travelling  to  London 
by  the  morning  express.  They  were  sated  with  knowledge  of  their 
destiny — no  curiosity,  no  wonder,  no  agitation,  no  fear.  Even  the 
words  of  the  most  beautiful  prayers  had  ceased  to  have  any  mean- 
ing because  the  matter  had  been  settled  so  long  ago  and  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  How  that  Chapel  had  throbbed  with 
expectation,  with  amaze,  with  curiosity,  with  struggle  I  Foolish 
much  of  it  perhaps,  stifling  it  had  seemed  then  in  its  superstition. 
Maggie  had  been  afraid  then,  so  afraid  that  she  could  not  sleep 
at  nights.    How  she  longed  now  for  that  fear  to  return  to  her! 

At  this  point  she  «ould  discover  that  she  was  beckoning  back 
to  her  the  figures  of  that  other  world.  They  must  not  come  .  .  . 
the  two  worlds  must  not  join  or  she  was  lost  ...  she  turned  her 
back  from  her  memories  and  her  desires. 

During  this  winter  there  were  the  two  affairs  of  Mr.  Toms  and 
Caroline. 

Maggie  carried  out  her  resolve  of  calling  on  Mr.  Toms.  She  did 
it  one  dark  afternoon  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  moved,  it  must 
be  confessed,  partly  by  a  sense  of  exasperation  with  Grace.  Grace 
had  been  that  day  quite  especially  tiresome.  She  had  a  cold,  and 
a  new  evening  dress  had  cost  twice  as  much  as  it  ought  to  have 
done^  Mitch  had  broken  into  eczema,  and  Mrs.  Constantine  had 
overruled  her  at  a  committee  meeting.  With  a  flood  of  discon- 
nected talk  she  had  overwhelmed  Maggie  until  the  girl  felt  as 
though  her  head  had  been  thrust  into  a  bag  of  flour.  Through  it 
ail  there  had  been  an  undercurrent  of  complaint  as  though  Maggie 
were  responsible. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Grace  declared  that  her  head  was  split- 
ting and  retired  to  her  bedroom.  Maggie,  in  a  state  of  blinded  and 
deafened  exasperation,  remembered  Mr.  Toms  and  decided  to  call 
on  him.  She  found  a  neat  little  house  standing  in  a  neat  little 
garden  near  the  sea  just  beyond  the  end  of  the  Promenade,  or 
The  Leas,  as  the  real  Skeatonian  always  called  it.  Miss  Toms  and 
Mr.  Toms  were  sitting  in  a  very  small  room  with  a  large  fire,  a  pale 
grey  wallpaper,  and  a  number  of  brightly-painted  wooden  toys  ar- 
ranged on  a  shelf  running  round  the  room.  The  toys  were  of  all 
kinds — a  fanr.  cows  and  sheep,  tigers  and  liona,  soldiers  and  can- 
non, a  church  and  a  butcher's  shop,  little  green  tufted  trees,  and  a 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAK 


343 


Noah's  ark.  Mr.  Toms  vas  sitting,  neat  as  a  pin,  smiling  in  an 
armchair  beside  the  fire,  and  Miss  Toms  near  him  was  reading 
aloud. 

Maggie  saw  at  once  that  her  visit  embarrassed  Miss  Toms 
terribly.  It  was  an  embarrassment  that  she  understood  perfectly. 
80  like  her  own  feelings  on  so  many  occasions.  This  put  her  at 
once  at  her  ease,  and  she  was  the  old,  simple,  direct  Maggie,  her 
face  eager  with  kindness  and  understanding.  Mr.  Toms  smiled 
perpetually  but  shook  hands  like  the  little  gentleman  he  was. 

Maggie,  studying  Miss  Toms'  face,  saw  that  it  was  lined  with 
trouble — an  ugly  face,  grave,  severe,  but  brave  and  proud.  Maggie 
apologised  for  not  coming  before. 

"  I  would  have  come "  she  began. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  apologise,"  said  Miss  Toms  brusquely.  "  They 
don't  call  on  us  here,  and  we  don't  want  them  to." 

"  They  don't  cull,"  said  Mr.  Toms  brightly,  "  because  they  know 
I'm  queer  in  the  '  ,"ad,  and  they're  afraid  I  shall  do  something  odd. 
They  told  you  I  was  queer  in  the  head,  didn't  they ! " 

Strangely  enough  this  stat'  ment  of  his  "  queemess,"  although 
it  brought  a  lump  into  Maggie's  throat,  did  not  disturb  or  confuse 
her. 

"  Tes,"  she  said,  "  they  did.  I  asked  who  you  were  after  I  had 
seen  you  in  the  road  that  day." 

"  I'm  not  in  the  least  dangerous,"  said  Mr.  Toms.  ''  You 
needn't  be  afraid.  Certain  things  seem  odd  to  me  that  don't  seem 
odd  to  other  people — that's  all." 

"  The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Trenchard,"  said  Miss  Toms,  speaking  very 
fast  and  flushing  as  she  spoke,  "  that  we  are  very  happy  by  our- 
selves, my  brother  and  I.  He  is  the  greatest  friend  I  have  in  the 
world,  and  I  am  his.  We  are  quite  sufficient  for  one  another. 
I  don't  want  to  seem  rude,  and  it's  kind  of  you  to  have  come, 
but  it's  better  to  leave  us  alone — it  is  indeed." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  smiling.  "You  see.  I'm  a 
little  queer  myself — at  least  I  think  that  most  of  the  people  here 
are  coming  to  that  conclusion.  I'm  sure  I'm  more  queer  than  your 
brother.  At  any  rate  I  can't  do  you  any  harm,  and  we  may  as  well 
give  it  a  trial,  mayn't  we  ? " 

Mr.  Toms  clapped  his  bauds  with  so  sudden  a  noise  that  Maggie 
jumped. 

"  That's  right,"  he  said.  ''  That's  the  way  I  like  to  hear  people 
talk.  You  shall  judge  for  yourself,  and  we'll  judge  for  ourselves." 
His  voice  was  very  soft  and  pleasant.  The  only  thing  at  all 
strange  about  him  was  his  smile,  that  came  and  went  like  the 


344 


THE  CAPTIVES 


ripple  of  firelight  on  the  wall.  "  You'd  like  to  know  all  about  U8, 
wouldn't  you  ?  Well,  until  ten  years  ago  I  was  selling  com  in  the 
City.  Such  a  waste  of  time!  But  I  took  it  very  seriously  then 
and  worked,  worked,  worked.  I  worked  too  hard,  you  know,  much 
too  hard,  and  then  I  was  ill — ill  for  a  long  time.  When  I  was 
better  corn  didn't  seem  to  be  of  any  importance,  and  people 
thought  that  very  odd  of  me.  I  was  confused  sometimes  and  called 
people  by  their  wrong  names,  and  sometimes  I  said  what  was  in 
my  head  instead  of  saying  what  was  in  my  stomach.  Every  one 
thought  it  very  odd,  and  if  my  dear  sister  hadn't  come  to  the 
rescue  they  would  have  locked  me  up — they  would  indeed ! 

"  Shut  me  up  and  never  let  me  walk  about — all  because  I  didn't 
care  for  corn  any  more." 

He  laughed  his  little  chuckling  laugh.  "  But  we  beat  them, 
didn't  we,  Dorothy?  Yes,  we  did — and  here  we  arel  Now,  you 
tell  us  your  history."    , 

Miss  Toms  had  been  watching  Maggie's  face  intently  while  her 
brother  spoke,  and  the  clear  steady  candour  of  Maggie's  eyes  and 
her  calm  acceptance  of  all  that  the  little  man  said  must  have  been 
reassuring. 

"Now,  Jim,"  she  said,  "don't  bother  Mrs.  Trenchard.  You 
can't  expect  her  to  tell  us  her  history  when  she's  calling  for  the 
first  time." 

"Why  not  expect  me  to!"  said  Maggie.  "I've  got  no  history. 
I  lived  in  Olebeshire  most  of  my  life  with  my  father,  who  was  a 
clergyman.  Then  he  died  and  I  lived  with  two  aunts  in  London. 
Then  I  met  Paul  and  he  married  me,  and  here  /  am ! " 

"  That's  not  history,"  said  Mr.  Toms  a  little  impatiently.  "  How- 
ever. I  won't  bother  you  now.  You're  only  a  child,  I  see.  And  I'm 
very  glad  to  see  it.    I  don't  like  grown  up  people." 

"  How  do  you  like  Skeaton  ? "  asked  Miss  Toms,  speaking  more 
graciously  than  she  had  done. 

«  Oh  I  shall  like  it,  I  expect,"  said  Maggie.  "  At  least  I  shall 
like  the  people.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  like  the  place — the 
sand  blows  about,  and  I  don't  like  the  woods." 

"Yes,  they're  greasy,  aren't  they?"  said  Mr.  Toms,  "and  full 
of  little  flies.    And  the  trees  are  dark  and  never  cool " 

They  talked  a  little  while  longer,  and  then  Maggie  got  up  to  say 
good-bye.  When  she  took  Mr.  Toms's  hand  and  felt  his  warm 
confident  pressure,  and  saw  his  large  trusting  eyes  looking  into 
hers,  she  felt  a  warmth  of  friendliness,  also  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  known  him  all  her  life. 

Miss  Toms  came  with  her  to  the  door.    They  looked  out  into  the 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR        345 

dark.  The  sea  rustled  close  at  hand,  far  on  the  horizon  a  red  light 
was  burning  u3  though  it  were  a  great  fire.  They  could  hear  the 
wave  break  on  the  beach  and  sigh  in  the  darkness  as  it  with' 
drew. 

"I  shall  come  again,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Don't  you  be  too  sure,"  said  Miss  Toms.  "  Wc  shall  quite 
understand  if  you  don't  come,  and  we  shan't  think  the  worse  of 
you.  Public  opinion  here  is  very  strong.  They  don't  want  to  be 
unkind  to  Jim,  but  they  think  he  ought  to  be  shut  up.  .  .  . 
Shut  up  1 "  Maggie  could  feel  that  she  was  quivering.  "  Shut 
up  I" 

Maggie  tossed  her  head. 

"  An,yway,  they  haven't  shut  me  up  yet,"  she  said. 

"  Well— good-night,"  said  Misa  Toms,  after  a  little  pause  in 
which  she  appeared  to  be  struggling  to  say  more. 

She  told  Grace  nnd  Paul  at  supper  that  night  that  she  had  been 
to  see  the  Toms.  She  saw  Grace  struggling  not  to  show  her  dis- 
approval and  thought  it  was  nice  of  her. 

"Do  ,vou  really  think ?"  said  Grace.     "Oh,  perhaps,  after 

all " 

"Paul,"  said  Maggie,  "do  you  not  want  me  to  see  the  Toms?" 

Paul  was  distressed. 

"  No,  it  isn't  that.  .  .  .  Miss  Toms  is  a  very  nice  woman. 
Only " 

"  You  think  it's  not  natural  of  me  to  take  an  interest  in  some 
one  who's  a  little  off  his  head  like  Mr.  Toms." 

"  Well,  dear,  perhaps  there  is  something " 

Maggie  laughed.  "I'm  a  little  off  my  head  too.  Oh!  you 
needn't  look  so  shocked,  Grace.  You  know  you  think  it,  and  every 
one  else  here  thinks  it  too.  Now,  Grace,  confess.  You're  begin- 
ning to  be  horrified  that  Paul  married  me." 

"  Please,  Maggie "  said  Paul,  who  hated  scenes.    Grace  was 

always  flushed  by  a  direct  attack.  Her  eyes  gazed  in  despair  about 
her  while  she  plunged  about  in  her  mind. 

"  Maggie,  you  mustn't  say  such  things — no,  you  mustn't.  Of 
course  it's  true  that  you've  got  more  to  learn  than  I  thought. 
You  are  careless,  dear,  aren't  you  ?  You  remember  .yesterday  that 
.you  promised  to  look  in  at  Petti  ts  and  get  a  reel  of  cotton,  and 
then  of  conrse  Mr.  Toms  is  a  good  lit  le  man — every  one  says  so 
— but  at  the  same  time  he's  queer,  you  must  admit  that,  Maggie; 
indeed  it  wasn't  really  very  long  ago  that  he  asked  Mrs.  Maxse 
in  the  High  Street  to  take  all  her  clothes  off  so  that  he  could  se« 
what  she  was  really  made  of.     Now.  that  isn't  nice,  Maggie,  it's 


846 


THE  CAPTIVES 


oJd — you  can't  deny  it.  And  if  you'd  only  told  m«  that  you  hadn't 
been  to  Fettita  I  could  have  gone  later  myself." 

"  If  it  isn't  one  thing,"  said  Maggie,  "  it's  another.  1  may  be 
a  child  and  careless,  and  not  be  educated,  and  have  strange  ideas, 
but  if  you  thought,  Grace,  that  it  was  going  lo  be  just  the  same 
after  Paul  was  married  as  before  you  were  mistaken.  Three's  a 
difficult  number  to  manage,  you  know." 

"Oh,  if  you  mean,"  said  Grace,  crimsoning,  "that  I'm  better 
away,  that  I  should  live  somewhere  else,  please  say  so  openly.  I 
hate  this  hinting.    What  I  mean  to  say  is  I  can  leave  to-morrow." 

"  My  dear  Grace,"  said  Paul  hurriedly,  "  whoever  thought  such 
a  thing?  We  couldn't  get  on  without  you.  AH  that  Maggie  meant 
was  that  it  takes  time  to  settle  down.    So  it  does." 

"That  isn't  all  I  meant,"  "icid  Maggie  slowly.  "I  meant  that 
I'm  not  just  a  child  as  you  hoih  think.  I've  got  a  life  of  my  own 
and  ideas  of  my  own.,  I'll  give  way  to  you  both  in  lots  of  things 
so  long  as  it  makes  you  happy,  but  you're  not — ^you're  not  going  to 
shut  me  up  as  you'd  like  to  do  to  Mr.  Toms." 

Perhaps  both  Grace  and  Paul  had  a  sharp  troubling  impression 
of  having  caught  some  strange  creature  against  their  will.  Maggie 
had  risen  from  the  table  and  stood  for  the  moment  by  the  door 
facing  them,  her  short  hair,  standing  thick  about  her  head,  con- 
trasting with  her  thick  white  neck,  her  body  balanced  clumsily  but 
with  great  strength,  like  that  of  a  boy  who  has  not  yet  grown  to 
his  full  maturity.  She  tossed  her  head  back  in  a  way  that  she 
had  and  was  gone. 

The  Caroline  affair  was  of  another  sort.  Some  days  after 
Christmas,  Maggie  went  to  have  tea  with  Caroline.  She  did  not 
enjoy  it  at  all.  She  felt  at  once  that  there  was  something  wrong 
with  the  house.  It  was  full  of  paintings  in  big  gold  frames,  look- 
ing-glasses, and  marble  statues,  and  there  was  a  large  garden  that 
had  an  artificial  look  of  having  been  painted  by  some  clever  artist 
in  the  course  of  a  night.  Maggie  did  not  pay  a  long  visit.  There 
were  a  number  of  men  present;  there  was  also  a  gramophone,  and 
after  tea  they  turned  up  the  carpet  in  the  dining-room  and  danced. 

Caroline,  in  spite  of  her  noise  and  laughter,  did  not  seem  to 
Maggie  to  be  happy.  She  introduced  her  for  a  moment  to  the 
master  of  the  house,  a  stout  red-faced  man  who  looked  as  though 
he  had  lost  something  very  precious,  but  was  too  sleepy  to  search 
for  it.  He  called  Caroline  "  Sweet,"  and  she  treated  him  with 
patronage  and  contempt.  Maggie  came  away  distressed,  and  she 
was  not  surprised  to  hear,  a  day  or  two  Lifer,  from  Grace  that 
Mrs.  Purdie  was  "  fast "  and  had  been  rude  to  Mrs.  Constantine. 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  FIRST  YEAR        347 

One  day  early  in  the  spring  Grace  announced  that  Uaggic  ought 
not  to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Purdie  any  more.  "  There  are  all  sorts  of 
Btoriea."  said  Grace.  "  People  say — Oh,  well,  never  mind.  They 
have  dancing  on  Sunday." 

"  But  she's  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  said  Maggie. 

"You  have  others  to  think  of  beside  yourself,  Maggie,"  said 
Grace.    "  And  there  is  the  Cluirch." 

"  She's  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  repeated  Maggie,  her  mouth  set 
obstinately. 

"  I  will  ask  Paul  what  he  thinks,"  said  Grace. 

"  Please,"  said  Maggie,  her  colour  rising  into  her  cheeks,  "  don't 
interfere  between  Paul  and  me.    I'll  speak  to  him  myself." 

She  did.  Paul  maintained  the  attitude  of  indifference  that  he 
had  adopted  during  the  last  six  months. 

"  But  would  you  rather  I  didn't  go  ? "  asked  Maggie,  aggravated. 

"  You  must  use  your  judgment,"  said  Paul. 

"But  don't  you  see  that  I  can't  leave  a  friend  just  because  people 
are  saying  nasty  things." 

"  There's  your  position  in  the  parish,"  said  Paul. 

"Oh,  Paull"  Maggie  cried.  "Don't  be  so  aggravating!  Just 
say  what  you  really  think." 

*  I'm  soriy  I'm  aggravating,"  said  Paul  patiently. 

It  was  this  conversation  that  determined  Maggie.  She  had  been 
coming,  through  all  the  winter  months,  to  a  resolution.  She  must 
be  alone  with  Paul,  she  must  have  things  out  with  him.  As  the 
months  had  gone  they  had  been  slipping  further  and  further  apart. 
It  had  been  Paul  who  had  gradually  withdrawn  into  himself.  He 
had  been  kind  and  thoughtful,  but  reserved,  shy,  embarrassed.  She 
understood  his  trouble,  but  at  her  first  attempt  to  force  him  to 
speak  he  escaped  and  placed  Grace  between  them.  Well,  this 
summer  should  see  the  end  of  that.  They  must  know  where  tlicy 
stood,  and  for  that  they  must  be  alone.  .    .    . 

One  day,  early  in  June,  Paul  announced  that  he  thought  of 
exchanging  duties,  for  the  month  of  August,  with  p  Wiltshire 
clergyman.  This  was  Maggie's  opportunity.  Finding  him  alone  in 
his  study,  she  attacked. 

"  Paul,  did  you  mean  Grace  to  come  with  us  to  Little  Harben 
in  August!" 

"  Of  course,  dear.    She  has  nowhere  else  to  go." 

"  Well,  she  mustn't  come.  I've  given  way  about  everything  since 
we  were  married.  I'm  not  going  to  give  way  about  this.  That 
month  we  are  to  be  alone." 

"  Alone ! "  said  Paul.    "  But  we're  always  alone." 


348 


THE  LAl'TIVES 


"  We're  never  alone,"  said  Maggie,  standing  with  her  legs  apart 
and  her  hands  behind  her  back.  "  1  don't  mean  to  complain  about 
Grace.  She's  been  very  good  to  me,  I  know,  and  I've  got  much 
to  be  grateful  for.  All  the  same  she's  not  coming  to  Little  Harben. 
She's  got  you  aU  the  rest  of  the  year.  She  can  give  you  up  for 
a  month." 

"But  Maggie "  said  Paul. 

"  No,  I'm  quite  determined  about  this.  I  may  be  a  child  and  a 
fool,  but  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about  this  time.  You're  not 
happy.  You  nevsr  talk  to  me  as  you  used  to.  There  are  many 
things  we  ought  to  have  out,  but  Grace  is  always  there  in  the 
daytime  and  at  night  you're  too  tired.  _  If  we  go  on  like  this 
we'll  be  strangers  in  another  six  months." 

He  turned  round  to  stare  at  her,  and  she  saw  in  his  eyes  an  odd 

excited  light.  ,        ..    t  -^^i 

"  Moggie,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  If  we  go  alone  to  Little 
Harben  does  it  mean  that  you  think— you  can  begin  to  love  mei" 

She  turned  her  eyes  away.  "  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  about 
myself,  I  only  know  that  I  want  us  to  be  happy  and  I  want  us  to 
be  close  together— as  we  were  before  we  were  married.  Its  all 
gone  wrong  somehow;  I'm  sure  it's  my  fault.  It  was  just  the 
same  with  my  father  and  my  aunts.  I  couldn't  say  the  things  to 
them  I  wanted  to,  the  things  I  really  felt,  and  so  I  lost  them.  I  m 
going  to  lose  you  in  the  same  way  if  I'm  not  careful." 

He  still  looked  at  her  strangely.  At  last,  with  a  sigh,  he  turned 
back  to  his  desk. 

« I'll  speak  to  Grace,"  he  said.    That  night  the  storm  broke. 

During  supper  Grace  was  very  quiet.  Maggie,  watching  her, 
knew  that  Paul  had  spoken  to  her.  Afterwards  in  the  study  the 
atmosphere  was  electric.  Grace  read  The  Church  Times,  Paul 
the  Standard,  Maggie  Longfellow's  Qolden  Legend,  which  she 
thought  foolish.  ,    ,,       .       ,  j     u 

Grace  looked  up.  "So  I  understand,  Maggie,  that  you  dont 
want  me  to  come  with  you  and  Paul  this  summer  J  ' 

Maggie,  her  heart,  in  spite  of  herself,  thumping  in  her  breast, 
faced  a  Gri.ce  transfigured  by  emotion.  That  countenance,  heav- 
ily, flabbily  good-natured,  the  eyes  if  stupid,  also  kind,  was  now 
marked  and  riven  with  a  flaming  anger. 

But  Maggie  was  no  coward.  With  her  old  gesture  of  self-com- 
mand she  stilled  her  heart.  "  I'm  very  sorry,  Grace,"  she  said. 
"  But  it's  only  for  a  month.    I  want  to  be  alone  with  Paul. 

Grace,  her  hands  fumbling  on  the  arms  of  her  chair  as  though 
she  were  blind,  rose. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  FIRST  VEAIl 


349 


"You'vi'  hotod  my  being  hpre,  Maggie  ...  oil  this  time  I'vi' 
seen  it.  You've  bated  me.  You  don't  know  that  you  owe  every- 
thing to  me,  that  you  couldn't  have  mnnnged  the  house,  the  shops, 
the  servants — nothing,  nothing.  This  last  year  I've  worked  my 
fingers  to  the  bone  for  you  and  Paul.  What  do  you  think  I  get 
out  of  it!  Nothing.  It's  because  I  love  Paul  .  .  .  because  I 
lovi'  Paul.  But  you've  hated  my  doing  things  better  than  you. 
you've  wanted  me  to  fail,  you've  been  jealous,  that's  what  you've 
been.  Very  well,  then,  I'll  go.  You've  mode  that  plain  enough 
at  any  rate.  I'll  leave  to-morrow.  I  won't  wait  another  hour. 
And  I'll  never  forgive  you  for  this — never.  You've  taken  Paul 
away  from  me  .  .  .  all  I've  ever  bad.  I'll  never  forgive  you — 
never,  never,  never." 

"  Grace,  Grace."  cried  Paul. 

But  she  rushed  from  the  room. 

Maggie  looked  at  her  husband. 

"  Why,  Paul,"  she  said.  "  you're  frightened.  Grace  doesn't 
mean  it.  She  won't  go  to-morrow — or  ever.  There's  nothing  to 
be  frightened  of." 

His  red  cheeks  were  pale.    Ilia  hands  trembled. 

"  I  do  so  hate  quarrels,"  he  said. 

Maggie  went  up  to  him  and  rather  timidly  put  her  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"We'll  have  a  lovely  time  at  Harben,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  do 
want  you  to  be  happy,  Paul." 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  BATTLE  OF  8SEAT0N 


Second  Year 


STRANGELY  enough  Uaggie  felt  happier  after  this  disturb- 
ance. Grace,  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  was  an  interesting 
confusion  of  silent  and  offended  dignity  and  sudden  capitulations 
because  she  had  some  news  of  fussing  interest  that  she  must  im- 
part. Nevertheless  she  was  deeply  hurt.  She  was  as  tenacious  of 
her  grievances  as  a  limpet  is  of  its  rock,  and  she  had  never  been 
so  severely  wounded  before.  Maggie,  on  her  side,  liked  Grace 
better  after  the  quarrel.  She  had  never  really  disliked  her,  she 
had  only  been  irritated  by  her. 

She  thought  it  very  natural  of  her  to  be  angry  and  jealous  about 
Paul.  She  was  determined  that  this  month  at  Little  Harben 
should  put  everything  right.  Looking  back  over  these  past  years 
she  blamed  herself  severely.  She  had  been  proud,  self-centred,  un- 
feeling. She  remembered  that  day  so  long  ago  at  St.  Dreot's  when 
Aunt  Anne  had  appealed  for  her  affection  and  she  had  made  no 
reply.  There  had  been  many  days,  too,  in  London  when  she  had 
been  rebellious  and  hard.  She  thought  of  that  night  when  Aunt 
Anne  had  suffered  so  terribly  and  she  had  wanted  only  her  own 
escape.  Yes — ^hard  and  unselfish  that  was  what  she  had  been,  and 
she  had  been  punished  by  losing  Martin. 

Already  here,  just  as  before  in  London,  she  was  complaining  and 
angry,  and  unsympathetic.  She  did  care  for  Paul — she  could 
even  love  Grace  if  she  would  let  her.  She  would  make  every- 
thing right  this  summer  and  try  and  be  a  better,  kinder 
woman. 

Then,  one  morning,  she  found  a  letter  on  the  breakfast  table. 
She  did  not  recognise  the  handwriting;  when  she  opened  it  and 
saw  the  signature  at  the  end  for  a  moment  she  also  did  not  recog- 
nise that.  "  William  Magnus."  .  .  .  Then — why,  of  course!  Mr. 
Magnus  I  She  saw  him  standing  looking  down  at  her  with  his  mild 
eyes,  staring  through  his  'arge  spectacles. 

Her  heart  beat  furiously.  She  waited  until  breakfast  was  over, 
then  she  took  it  up  to  her  bedroom. 

The  letter  was  as  follows : 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR      351 

Deak  Miss  Maooie, 

I  know  you  are  not  "  Miu  Maggie "  now,  but  that  i»  the  only 
way  that  I  can  think  of  you.  I  expect  that  you  have  quite  for- 
gotten me.  and  perhaps  you  don't  want  to  hear  from  me.  but  I 
must  not  lose  sight  of  you  altogether.  I  haven't  so  many  friends 
that  I  can  lose  one  without  a  word.  I  don't  know  quite  what  to 
begin  by  telling  you.  I  ought  to  ask  you  questions  about  yourself. 
I  suppose,  but  I  know  that  your  aunts  hear  from  you  from  time  to 
time  and  they  give  me  news  from  your  letters.  I  hear  that  you  are 
happily  married  and  are  quite  settled  down  to  your  new  life.  I'm 
very  glad  to  hear  that,  although  it  isn't  quite  the  life  that  I  would 
have  prophesied  for  you.  Do  you  like  Skeaton !  I've  never  cared 
much  for  seaside  resorts  myself,  but  then  I'm  a  queer  cranky  old 
man,  and  I  deserve  all  I  get.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  something 
cheerful  about  all  your  friends  here,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't.  Your 
aunt  is  so  brave  and  plucky  that  probably  she  said  notbing  to  you 
in  her  last  letter  about  how  ill  she  has  been,  but  she's  just  had  a 
very  bad  bout,  and  at  one  time  we  were  afraid  that  we  were  going 
to  lose  her.  You  can  imagine  how  anxious  we  all  were.  But  she 
is  better  again  now,  although  very  much  shattered.  The  Chapel  is 
closed.  There's  a  piece  of  news  for  you !  It  never  recovered  from 
poor  Warlock's  death;  he  was  the  spirit  that  gave  it  life,  and 
although  ho  may  have  had  his  dreams  and  imaginations  that 
deceived  him,  there  was  some  life  in  that  building  that  I  have 
never  found  anywhere  else  and  shall  never  find  again.  You  re- 
member that  Amy  Warlock  married  that  scamp  Thurston.  Well, 
she  has  left  him  and  has  come  back  to  live  with  her  mother.  She 
had  a  rather  bad  experience,  I'm  afraid,  poor  woman,  l.i:t  she  says 
nothing  to  any  one  about  it.  She  and  the  old  lady  hnve  moved 
from  this  part  of  London  and  have  gone  to  live  somewhere  in 
Kensington.  Some  one  saw  Martin  Warlock  in  Paris  the  other  day. 
I  hear  hat  he  has  been  very  seriously  ill  and  is  greatly  changed, 
looking  years  older.  I  can  say,  now  that  you  are  happily  married, 
that  I  am  greatly  relieved  that  you  were  not  engaged  to  him.  You 
won't  think  this  presumptuous  of  a  man  old  enough  to  be  your 
father,  will  you  1  I  am  sure  he  had  many  good  things  in  him,  but 
he  was  very  weak  and  not  fitted  to  look  after  you.  But  he  had  a 
good  heart,  I'm  sure,  and  his  father's  death  was  a  great  shock  to 
him.  Thurston,  I  hear,  is  having  revival  meetings  up  and  down 
the  country.  Miss  Avies,  I  believe,  is  with  him.  You  remember 
Miss  Pyncheon?  She  and  many  other  regular  attendants  at  the 
Chapel  have  left  this  neighbourhood.  The  Chapel  is  to  be  a 
cinematograph  theatre,  I  believe.    There!     I  have  given  you  all 


^ 


352 


THE  CAPTIVES 


the  gouip.  I  hive  not  Mid  more  about  your  auntB  bectuw  I  want 
you  to  come  up  one  day  to  London,  when  you  have  time,  and  see 
them.  You  will  do  that,  won't  you  (  I  expect  you  arc  very  bu»y— 
I  hope  yuu  an.-.  I  would  like  to  have  a  line  from  you,  but  pleue 
don't  bother  if  you  have  too  much  to  do. 

Always  your  friend, 

William  MaokU8. 

When  Maggie  saw  Uartin'a  name  the  other  writing  on  the  page 
transformed  itself  suddenly  into  a  strange  pattern  of  webs  and 
squares.  Nevertheless  she  pursued  her  way  through  this,  but 
without  her  own  agency,  as  though  some  outside  person  were  read- 
ing to  her  and  she  was  not  listening. 

She  repeated  the  last  words  "Always  your  friend,  William 
Uagnus"  aloud  solemnly  twice.  Her  thoughts  ran  in  leaps  and 
runs,  hurdle-race-wise  across  the  flat  level  of  her  brain.  Uartin. 
Old.  III.  Paris.  Those  walls  out  there  and  the  road — man  with 
B  spade— little  boy  walking  with  him— chattering— it's  going  to 
be  hot.  The  light  across  the  lawn  is  almost  blue  and  the  beds  are 
dry.  His  room.  The  looking-glass.  Always  tilts  back  when  one 
tries  to  see  one's  hair.  Meant  to  speak  about  it.  Martin.  HI. 
Paris.  Paris.  Trains.  Boats.  How  quickly  could  one  be  there? 
No  time  at  all.  Paris.  Never  been  to  Paris.  Perhaps  he  isn't 
there  now.  ...  j         .        ni. 

At  that  de6nitc  picture  she  controlled  her  mind  again.  8h8 
pulled  it  up  as  a  driver  drags  back  a  restive  horse.  Her  first  real 
thought  was:  "How  hard  that  this  letter  should  have  come  now 
when  I  was  just  going  to  put  everything  right  with  Paul."  Her 
next:  "Poor  Paul!  But  I  don't  care  for  him  a  bit.  ...  I  don't 
care  for  any  one  but  Martin.  I  never  did."  Her  next :  "  Why  did 
I  ever  think  I  did!"    And  her  next:  "  Why  did  I  ever  do  this! 

She  knew  with  a  strange  calm  certainty  that  from  this  moment 
she  would  never  be  rid  of  Martin's  presence  again.  She  bad 
maintained  for  more  than  a  year  a  wonderful  make-believe  of  in- 
difference. She  had  fancied  that  by  pushing  furiously  with  both 
hands  one  could  drive  things  into  the  past.  But  Fate  was  cleverer 
than  that.  What  he  wanted  to  keep  he  kept  for  you— the  weaving 
of  the  pattern  in  the  carpet  might  be  your  handiwork,  but  the  final 
design  was  settled  before  ever  the  carpet  was  begun.  Not  that  any 
of  these  fine  thoughts  ever  entered  Maggie's  head.  All  that  she 
thought  was  "  I  love  Martin.  I  want  to  go  to  him.  He's  ill.  I  ve 
got  to  do  my  duty  about  Paul."  She  settled  upon  that  last  point. 
She  bound  her  mind  around  it,  fast  and  secure  like  thick  cord. 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAK      353 

She  put  Mr.  MiiRnui'  letter  away  in  the  ahcll-covcrcd  box,  the 
wcdding-preacnt  from  the  auntt;  io  this  box  were  thi'  ptoRrammK 
of  the  play  that  the  had  been  to  with  Martin,  the  ring  with  the 
three  pearla,  Martin's  few  letters,  and  some  petula  nf  tlu-  ehrjuan- 
themum,  dry  and  faded,  that  ehe  hud  worn  on  the  tttv.\l  dii.v  of 
the  mating.  Something  had  warned  her  that  it  was  foolLh  to 
keep  Martin's  letters,  but  why  should  she  noti  She  had  never 
hidden  her  love  for  Martin.  Tl-n,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  close  beside  the  largo  double-bed,  with  n  football-group  and 
"  The  Crucifixion  "  staring  down  upon  her,  she  had  her  worst  hour. 
Nothing  in  all  life  could  have  moved  l.cr  as  did  that  picture  of 
Martin's  loneliness  and  sickness.  Wavj  after  wave  of  persuasion 
swept  over  her:  "Go!  Go  now  I  Take  the  train  to  Paris.  You 
can  find  out  from  Mr.  Magnus  where  ho  was  living.  lie  is  sick. 
He  nceils  you.  You  awore  to  him  that  you  would  never  desert  him, 
and  you  have  deserted  him.  They  don't  want  you  here.  Grace 
hates  you,  and  Paul  is  too  lazy  to  care  I  " 

At  the  thought  of  Paul  resolution  came  to  her.  She  looked  up 
at  the  rather  fat.  amiable  youth  with  the  stout  legs  and  the  bare 
knees  in  the  football  photograph,  and  prayed  to  it:  "Paul,  I'm 
very  lonely  and  tempted.  Care  for  me  even  though  I  can't  love 
you  as  you  want.  Don't  give  me  up  because  I  can't  let  you  have 
what  some  one  else  has  got.    Let's  be  happy,  Paul — please." 

She  waa  shivering.  She  looked  back  with  a  terrified,  reluctant 
glance  to  the  drawer  where  Mr.  Magnus'  letter  was,  then  she 
went  downstairs. 

Soon  after  they  started  for  Little  Harben.  The  last  days  in 
Skeaton  had  scarcely  been  happy  ones.  Grace  had  erected  an 
elaborate  scaffolding  of  offended  dignity  and  bitter  misery.  She 
was  not  bitterly  miserable,  indeed  she  enjoyed  her  game,  but  it 
was  depressing  to  watch  Paul  give  way  to  her.  He  wa.s  determined 
to  leave  her  in  a  happy  mind.  Any  one  could  have  told  him  that 
the  way  to  do  that  was  to  leave  her  alone  altoKcthcr.  Instead  he 
petted  her,  persuading  her  to  eat  her  favourite  pudding,  buying  her 
a  new  work-box  that  she  needed,  dismissing  a  boy  from  the  choir 
(the  only  treble  who  wa3  a  treble)  because  he  was  supposed  to  have 
made  a  long-nose  at  Grace  during  choir-practice. 

Hfe  adopted  also  a  pleading  line  with  her.  "  Now,  Grace  dear» 
don't  you  think  you  could  manage  a  little  bit  more?" 

"  Do  you  think  you  ought  to  go  out  in  all  this  rain,  Grace  dear?  " 
"Grace,  you  look  tired  to  death.  Shall  I  read  to  you  a  little?" 
He  listened  to  her  stories  with  a  new  elaborate  attention.     He- 


I 


354 


THE  CAPTIVES 


TlirouRh 
mournful 


Uugbed  httrtily  at  the  wry  f«inteit  glimmer  of  ■  joke 
it  all  Grace  miintiioed  an  unreleatnl  solemnity,  a 
•uperiority,  a  grim  forbearance. 

Maggie,  watching,  felt  with  a  ainking  heart  that  ahe  waa  begin- 
ning to  de»pi»c  Paul.  . .       ,      „ 

Ilia  very  movement  aa  be  hurried  to  place  a  cushion  tor  Oraoc 
sent  a  little  shiver  down  her  back.  "  Oh,  don't  do  it,  Paull "  «hc 
heard  hemelf  cry  internally,  but  she  could  say  nothing.  She  hud 
won  her  victory  about  Hiirbcn.  She  could  only  now  be  silent. 
Still,  she  bore  no  grudge  at  all  againat  Grace.  She  even  liked 
her. 

Orace  made  many  sinister  allusions  to  her  fancied  departure. 
"  Ah,  in  November.  .  .  .  Oh  I  of  course  1  shall  not  be  here  then  I " 
or  "That  will  be  in  the  autumn  then,  won't  it  I  You'd  better  give 
it  "to  some  one  who  will  be  here  at  the  time."  With  every  allusion 
she  scored  a  victory.  It  was  evident  that  Paul  was  terrified  by 
the  thought  that  she  ahould  leave  him.  He  did  not  see  what  ho 
would  do  without  her.    His  world  would  tumble  to  pieces. 

"  But  she  hasn't  the  remoteat  intention  of  going,"  said  Maggie. 
"  She'll  never  go."  ,       „       . 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  It  woul<l  be  strange  without  her,  Maggie, 
I  must  confcsa.    You  see,  all  our  lives  we've  been  together— all  our 

Xevertbeless  he  felt  perhaps  df.roe  relief,  in  spite  of  himself, 
when  they  were  safely  in  a  train  for  Little  Harben.  It  wat  rather 
a  relief,  just  for  a  day  or  two,  not  to  see  Grace's  reproachful  face. 
Yes,  it  was.  He  was  quite  gay,  olmost  like  the  boy  he  used  to  be. 
Little  Ilarben  was  one  of  the  smollest  villoges  in  Wiltshire  and 
its  Kectory  one  of  the  most  dilapidated.  The  Rectory  was  sunk 
into  the  very  bottom  of  a  green  well.  Green  hills  row  on  every 
side  above  it,  green  woods  pressed  in  all  around  it,  a  wild,  deserted 
green  garden  crept  up  to  the  windows  and  clambered  about  the 
old  walls.  There  was  hardly  any  furniture  in  the  house,  and  many 
many  windows  all  without  curtains.  Long  looking-glasses  reflected 
the  green  garden  at  every  possible  angle  so  that  all  the  lights  and 
shodows  in  the  house  were  green.  There  was  a  cat  with  green 
eyes,  and  the  old  servant  waa  so  aged  and  infirm  that  she  was, 
spiritually  if  not  physicolly,  covered  with  green  moss. 

From  their  bedroom  they  could  see  the  long  green  slope  of  the 
hill.  Everywhere  there  was  a  noise  of  birds  nestling  amongst  the 
leaves,  of  invisible  streams  running  through  the  grass,  of  branchea 
mysteriously  cracking,  and,  always,  in  the  distance  some  one 
eccmed  to  be  chopping  with  an  axe.    If  you  pushed  *  window  open 


THE  BATTLE  OV  8KEAT0N: SECOND  YEAR   355 

'  'titudM  of  little  inwcts  fell  io  ihowen  about  you.     All  the 
■m  eaten  with  Kreen  flies. 

It  ■  place  I"  Mid  MHiwic;  ncvcrlhelrw  it  wai  rather  ngnc- 
■  '■■<'•  :i'  er  the  und  of  Hkeaton. 

I        ig  the  ftnt  three  daya  thvy  prewrvcil   their  attitude  of 

'  '       ly  diitance.     On   the    fourth   evening   Magfrio  dc^iporiitolv 

;  down  her  challenge.    They  went  lilting,  after  nupper,  in  llh' 

M  deMrtcd  garden.    It  watt  a  wonderful  vTf'iu«,  fnintly  blue  ittiil 

•n  eroeuB  with  flickering  iiilver  ntnrit.  Tit  •  l.fii  l.irda  twittered  in 
the  wooda;  the  green  arc  of  the  hill  again  I  t/c-  cM'niT,  'kv  had  » 
greiit  majeaty  of  repote  and  rent.    "  Now   I    ii. !  '  «nid  .ifngui  ■. 

"What  ia  it,  dear?"  but  he  alowlv  I  jiiged  cwour  imi  '<»iked 
away  from  her,  out  into  the  wood. 

"  We've  got  to  face  it  iomc  time, '  ^iw  nid  "  Tlic  i'ooit  •,  then, 
the  better " 

"Face  whatf  he  lakcd,  droppinjf  hi»  v.i.c  is  though  he  were 
afraid  that  aome  one  wotdd  overhear. 

"You  and  me."  Maggie  gathi'red  her  rcsoiai'vp  tfKi'her.  "  Ue- 
fore  we  were  married  we  were  great  fricndi.  Ymu  \Trc  the  K'rentect 
friend  1  ever  had  except  Uncle  Mathew.  Aii<i  iiu^v  I  don't  know 
what  we  are." 

"  Whose  fault  is  that!"  he  asked  huskily.  "  You  know  what  the 
matter  is.  You  don't  love  me.  You  never  have.  ,  .  .  Have 
you?"    He  suddenly  ended,  turning  towards  her. 

She  saw  his  new  eagerness  and  she  was  frightened,  but  she  looked 
at  a  little  bunch  of  stars  that  twinkled  at  her  above  the  dark  elms 
and  took  courage. 

"  I'm  very  bad  at  explaining  my  feelings,"  she  snid.  "  And 
you're  not  very  good  either,  Paul.  I  know  I  am  very  fond  of  you, 
and  I  feel  as  though  it  ought  to  be  so  simple  if  I  were  wiser  or 
kinder.  I've  been  thinking  for  weeks  about  this,  and  I  want  to  say 
that  I'm  ready  to  do  anything  that  will  make  you  happy." 

"You'll  love  me?"  he  asked. 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  you,  and  I  always  will  be." 

"  No,  but  love." 

"  A  word  like  that  isn't  important.    Affection " 

"  No.    It's  love  I  want." 

She  turned  away  from  him,  pressing  her  hands  together,  staring 
into  the  wood  that  was  sinking  into  avenues  of  dar,..  She  couldn't 
answer  him.  He  came  over  to  her.  He  knelt  on  the  dry  grastt, 
took  her  head  between  his  hands,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again 
and  again. 

She  heard  him  murmur ;  "  Maggie  .    .    .  MaggJO  .    .    .  Magri<^ 


.«** 


356 


THE  CAPTIVES 


You  must  love  me.  You  mu»t.  I've  waited  so  long.  I  didn't 
know  what  love  was.  God  in  His  Mercy  forgive  me  for  the 
thoughts  I've  had  this  year.  You've  tormented  me.  Tantalised 
me.  You're  a  witch.  A  witch.  You're  so  strange,  so  odd,  so 
unlike  any  one.  You've  enchanted  me.  Love  me.  Maggie.  .  .  . 
Love  me.  .   .   .  Love  me." 

She  caught  liis  words  all  broken  and  scattered.  She  felt  his 
heart  beating  against  her  body,  and  his  hands  were  hot  to  the 
touch  of  her  cold  cheek.  She  felt  that  he  was  desperate  and 
ashamed  and  pitiful.  She  felt,  above  all  else,  that  she  must 
respond— and  she  could  not.  She  strove  to  give  him  what  he 
needed.  She  caught  his  hands,  and  then,  because  she  knew  that 
she  was  acting  falsely  and  the  whole  of  her  nature  was  in  rebellion, 
she  drew  back.    He  felt  her  withdraw.    His  hands  dropped. 

She  burst  into  tears,  suddenly  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  as 
she  used  to  do  when  s)ie  was  a  little  girl. 

"  Oh,  Paul,"  she  wept.  "  I'm  so  sorry.  I'm  so  sorry.  I'm 
wicked.     I  can't " 

He  got  up  and  stood  with  his  back  to  her,  looking  towards  the 
night  sky  that  flashed  now  with  stars. 

She  controlled  herself,  feeling  desperately  that  their  whole  future 
together  hung  on  the  approaching  minutes.  She  went  up  to  him, 
standing  at  first  timidly  behind  him,  then  putti.  j;  I^jt  hand  through 
his  arm. 

"Paul.  It  isn't  so  hopeless.  If  I  can't  give  you  that  I  can 
give  you  everything  else.  I  told  you  from  the  first  that  I  couldn't 
help  loving  Martin.  All  that  kind  of  love  I  gave  to  him,  but  we 
can  be  friends.  I  want  a  friend  so  badly.  If  we're  both  lonely 
we  can  come  together  closer  and  closer,  and  perhaps,  later  on " 

But  she  could  not  go  on.  She  knew  that  she  would  never  forget 
Martin,  that  she  would  never  love  Paul.  These  two  things  were  so 
clear  to  her  that  she  could  not  pretend.  As  the  darkness  gathered 
the  wood  into  its  arms  and  the  last  twitter  of  the  birds  sank  into 
silence,  she  felt  that  she  too  was  being  caught  into  some  silent 
blackness.  The  sky  was  pale  green,  the  stars  so  bright  that  the 
rest  of  the  world  seemed  to  lie  in  dim  shadow.  She  could  scarcely 
see  Paul  now;  when  he  spoke  his  voice  came,  disembodied,  out  of 
the  dusk. 

"You'll  never  forget  him,  then?"  nt  last  he  asked. 

«  No." 

"  You're  strange.  You  don't  belong  to  us.  I  should  have  seen 
that  at  the  beginning.  I  knew  nothing  about  women  and  thought 
that  all  that  I  wanted— oh  God.  why  should  I  be  so  tempted!    I've 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR      357 

been  a  good  man.  .  .  ."  Then  he  came  oloso  to  her  and  put  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder  and  even  drew  her  to  him.  "I  won't  bother 
you  any  more,  Maggie.  I'll  oonquor  this.  We'll  be  friends  as  you 
want.    It  isn't  fair  to  yon " 

She  felt  the  control  that  he  was  keeping  on  himself  and  she 
admired  him.  Nevertheless  she  knew,  young  though  she  was.  that 
if  she  let  him  go  now  she  was  losing  him  for  ever.  The  strangest 
pang  01  loneliness  and  isolation  seized  her.  If  Paul  left  her  and 
Martin  wasn't  there,  she  was  lonely  indeed.  She  saw  quite  clearly 
how  his  laziness  would  come  to  his  aid.  lie  would  summon  first 
his  virtue  and  his  relit -on,  and  twenty  years  of  abstinence  would 
soon  reassert  their  sway;  then  he  would  slip  back  into  the  old,  lazy, 
self-complacent  being  that  he  had  been  before.  Staring  into  the 
dark  wood  she  law  it  all.  She  could  completely  capture  him  by 
responding  to  his  passion.  Without  that  she  >^a3  too  queer,  too 
untidy,  too  undisciplined,  to  hold  him  at  all.  But  she  could  not 
lie.  she  could  not  pretend. 

She  kissed  h.'m. 

"  Paul,  let's  be  friends,  then.  Splendid  friends.  Oh !  we  mil 
be  happy ! " 

But  as  he  kissed  her  she  knew  that  she  had  lost  him. 

Paul  was  very  kind  to  her  during  their  stay  at  Little  Harbcn, 
but  they  recovered  none  of  that  old  friendship  that  had  been 
theirs  before  they  married.  Too  many  things  were  now  between 
them.  By  the  end  of  that  month  Maggie  longed  to  return  to 
Skeaton.  It  was  not  only  that  she  felt  crushed  and  choked  by  the 
strangling  green  that  hemmed  in  the  old  house — the  weeds  and 
the  trees  and  the  plants  seemed  to  draw  in  the  night  closer  and 
closer  about  the  windows  and  doors — but  also  solitude  with  Paul 
was  revealing  to  her.  in  a  ruthless,  cruel  manner,  his  weaknesses. 
They  were  none  of  them,  perhaps,  very  terrible,  but  she  did  not 
wish  to  see  them.  She  would  like  to  shut  hpr  eyes  to  them  all. 
If  she  loit  that  friendly  kindness  that  she  felt  for  him  then  indeed 
she  had  lost  everything.  She  felt  as  though  he  were  wilfully  try- 
ing to  tug  it  away  from  her. 

Why  was  it  that  she  had  never  shrunk  from  the  fafllts  of  Martin 
and  Uncle  Mathew — faults  so  plain  and  obvious — and  now  shrunk 
from  Paul's?  Paul's  were  such  little  ones— a  desire  for  praise 
and  appreciation,  a  readiness  to  be  cheated  into  believing  that  all 
was  well  when  he  knew  that  things  were  very  wrong,  nn  eagerness 
to  be  liked  even  by  quite  worthless  people,  sloth  and  laziness,  living 
lies  that  were  of  no  importance  save  as  sign-posts  to  the  cowardice 
of  his  soul.    Yes,  cowardice!    That  was  the  worst  of  all.    Was  it 


358  THE  CAPTIVES 

hia  religion  that  had  made  him  cowardly?  Why  was  Maggie  so 
terribly  certain  that  if  the  necessity  for  physical  defence  of  her 
or  some  helpless  creature  arose  Paul  would  evade  it  and  talk  about 
"turning  the  other  cheek"!  He  was  so  large  a  man  and  so  soft 
—a  terrific  egoist  finally,  in  the  centre  of  his  soul,  an  egoist  barri- 
caded by  superstitions  and  fears  and  lies,  but  not  a  ruthless  egout, 
because  that  demanded  energy.  . 

And  yet,  with  all  this,  he  had  so  many  good  points.  He  was  a 
child,  a  baby,  like  so  many  clergymen.  Even  her  father  lould 
have  been  defended  by  that  plea.  ...  ,,.1.1.1 

He  was  not  radically  had,  he  was  radically  good,  but  he  had 
never  known  discipline  or  real  sorrow  or  hardship.  Wrapped  in 
cotton  wool  all  his  life,  spoih,  indulged,  treated  by  the  world  as. 
men  treat  women.  His  effeminacy  was  the  result  of  his  training 
because  he  had  always  been  sheltered.  Now  his  contact  with 
Maggie  was  presenting  him  for  the  first  time  with  Reahty.  Would 
he  face  and  grapple  with  it.  or  would  he  slip  away,  evade  it,  and 
creep  back  into  his  padded  castle?  ,  .     ... 

The  return  to  Skeaton  and  the  winter  that  followed  it  did  not 
answer  that  question.  Maggie,  Grace,  and  Paul  were  figures, 
tuarded  and  defended,  outwardly  friendly.  Grace  behaved  during 
those  months  very  well,  but  Maggie  knew  that  this  was  a  fresh 
sign  of  hostility.  The  "  Chut-Chut,"  "  My  dear  child,  and  the 
rest  that  had  been  so  irritating  had  been  after  all  signs  of  intimacy. 
They  were  now  withdrawn.  Maggie  made  herself  during  that 
winter  and  the  spring  that  followed  as  busy  as  possible.  She 
ruthlessly  forbade  all  thoughts  of  Martin,  of  the  aunts,  of  London; 
she  scarcely  saw  Caroline,  and  the  church  was  her  fortress.  She 
seemed  to  be  flung  from  service  to  service,  to  be  singing  m  tho 
choir  (she  had  no  voice),  asking  children  their  catechism,  listening 
to  Paul's  high,  rather  strained,  voice  reading  the  lessons,  talking 
politely  to  Mrs.  Maxse  or  one  of  the  numerous  girls,  knitting  and 
sewing  (always  so  badly),  and  above  all  struggling  to  remember 
the  things  that  she  was  for  ever  forgetting.  Throughout  this 
period  she  was  pervaded  by  the  damp,  oily  smell  of  the  heated 
church,  always  too  hot,  always  too  close,  always  too  breathless. 

She  had  many  headaches;  she  liked  them  because  they  held  back 
her  temptation  to  think  of  forbidden  things. 

Gradually,  although  she  did  not  know  it,  the  impression  gained 
ground  that  she  was  "queer."  She  had  not  been  to  the  Toms 
often,  but  she  was  spoken  of  as  their  friend.  Srio  had  seen  Caro- 
line, who  was  now  considered  by  the  church  a  most  scandalous 
figure,  scarcely  at  all,  but   it  was  known  that  she  was  an  old 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR   359 

friend.  Above  all.  it  was  understood  that  the  rector  and  hiii  wife 
were  not  hcppy. 

"  Oh,  she's  odd — looks  more  like  a  boy  than  a  woman.  She  never 
says  anything,  seems  to  have  no  ideas.  I  don't  believe  she's 
religious  really  either." 

She  knew  nothing  of  this.  She  did  not  notice  that  she  was 
not  asked  often  to  other  houses.  People  were  kind  (the  Skeaton 
people  were  neither  malicious  nor  cruel)  but  left  her  more  and 
more  alone.  She  said  to  herself  again  and  again:  "I  must  mako 
this  a  success — I  must " — but  the  words  were  becoming  mechani- 
cal. It  was  like  tramping  a  treadmill:  she  got  no  further,  only 
became  more  and  more  exhausted.  That  spring  and  summer  people 
noticed  her  white  face  and  strange  eyes.  "  Oh,  she's  a  queer  girl," 
they  said. 

Ihe  summer  was  very  hot  with  a  little  wind  that  blew  the  sand 
everywhere.  Strange  how  that  sand  succeeded  in  penetrating  into 
the  very  depth  of  the  town.  The  sand  lay  upon  the  pavement  of 
the  High  Street  so  that  your  feet  gritted  as  you  walked.  The 
woods  and  houses  lay  for  nearly  two  months  beneath  a  blazing 
sun.  There  was  scarcely  any  rain.  The  little  garden  behind  the 
■Rectory  was  parched  and  brown ;  the  laurel  bushes  were  grey  with 
dust.  They  saw  very  few  people  that  summer;  many  of  their 
friends  had  escaped. 

If'V-gie,  thinking  of  the  green  depths  of  Ilarben  a  year  ago, 
long',  for  its  coolness;  nevertheless  she  was  happy  to  think  that 
she  would  never  have  to  see  Harben  again. 

A»  she  had  foretold,  laziness  settled  upon  Paul.  What  he  love<l 
best  was  to  sink  into  his  old  armchair  in  the  dusty  study  and  read 
old  volumes  of  Temple  Bar  and  the  Cornhill.  lie  had  them  piled 
at  his  side;  he  read  article  after  article  about  such  subjects  as 
"  The  Silkworm  Industry  "  and  "  Street  Signs  of  the  Eighteenth 
Century."  He  was  very  proud  of  his  sermons,  but  now  he  seldom 
gave  a  new  one.  He  always  intended  to.  "  Don't  lot  any  one 
disturb  me  to-night,  Maggie."  he  would  say  at  supper  on  Fridays. 
"  I've  got  my  sermon."  But  on  entering  the  study  ho  remombored 
that  there  was  an  article  in  Temple  Bar  that  he  must  finish.  He 
also  read  the  Church  Times  right  through,  including  the  adver- 
tisements.   Grace  gradually  resumed  her  old  functions. 

She  maintained,  however,  an  elaborate  pretence  of  leaving  every- 
thing to  Maggie.  Especially  was  she  delighted  when  Maggie  forgot 
something.  When  that  happened  she  said  nothing;  her  mouth 
curled  a  little.  She  treated  Maggie  loss  and  less  to  her  garrulous 
confidences.     They  would  sit  for  hours  in  the  drawing-room  to- 


360  THE  CAPTIVES 

gcther  without  exchanginR  a  word.  Maggie  and  Paul  had  now 
different  bedrooms.  Karly  in  the  autumn  Maggie  hod  a  httle 
note  from  Mr.  Magnus.    It  said: 

«  You  have  not  written  to  any  ol  us  for  months.  Won  t  you 
eome  ju.t  for  a  night  to  sec  your  aunts?    At  least  let  us  know 

that  you  ore  happy."  ,       ,      ,  .  ,    ..       •ii„„ 

She  eried  that  night  in  bed.  squeezing  her  head  into  the  pillow 
so  that  no  one  should  hoar  her.  She  seem.^  to  have  lost  all  her 
pluck.  She  must  do  something,  but  what?  She  did  not  know  how 
to  deal  with  people.  If  the/  were  kind  and  friendly  there  were 
so  many  things  that  she  could  do,  but  this  silent  creeping  away 
from  her  paralysed  her.  She  remembered  how  she  had  said  to 
Katherine:  "No  one  can  make  me  unhappy  if  I  do  not  wish  it 
to  be."  Now  she  did  not  dare  to  think  how  unhappy  she  was. 
She  knew  that  they  all  thought  her  strange  and  odd,  and  she  felt 
that  strangeness  creeping  upon  her.  She jnusi  be  odd  if  many 
people  thought  her  so.  She  became  terribly  self-conscious,  won- 
dering whether  her  words  and  movements  were  strange. 

She  was  often  so  tired  that  she  could  not  drag  one  foot  after 

'"a  f^w  weeks  before  Christmas  something  happened.    A  terrible 
thing,  perhaps— but  she  was  delivered  by  it.  ... 

She  was  sitting  one  afternoon  a  few  weeks  before  Christmas  m 
the  drawing-room  alone  with  Grace.  It  was  her  At  Home  day, 
a  Friday  afternoon.  Grace  was  knitting  a  grey  stocking  a  long 
one  that  curled  on  her  lap.  She  knitted  badly,  clumsily,  twisting 
her  fingers  into  odd  shapes  and  muddling  her  needles  ^ow  and 
then  she  would  look  up  as  though  she  meant  to  talk,  and  then 
remembering  that  it  was  Maggie  who  was  opposite  to  her  she 
Zld  purse  her  lips  and  look  down  again.  The  fire  hummed  and 
sputtered,  the  clock  ticked,  and  Grace  breathed  in  heavy  despair- 
ing pants  over  the  difficulties  of  her  work.  The  door  opened  and 
the  little  maid,  her  eyes  nervously  wandering  towards  Grace,  mur- 
mured, "  Mr.  Cardinal,  mum."  _ 

The  next  thing  of  which  Maggie  was  eonseioua  was  Lncle 
Mathcw  standing  clumsily  just  inside  the  door  shifting  his  bowler 
hat  between  his  two  hands.  ,        ,      .  .  „j 

The  relief  of  seeing  him  was  so  great  that  she  jumped  up  and 
rantowardshimerying,  "Oh,  Uncle  Mathewl    I'm  so  glad!     At 

He  dropped  his  bowler  in  giving  her  his  hand  She  noticed  at 
once  that  he  was  looking  very  unhappy  and  had  terribly  run  to 
seed. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR   361 

He  was  badly  shaved,  his  blue  suit  was  shabby  and  soiled.  He 
was  fatter,  and  his  whole  body  was  flabby  and  uncared  for. 
Uaggio  saw  at  once  that  he  had  been  drinkinff,  not  very  much, 
but  enough  to  make  him  a  little  uncertoin  on  his  feet  and  unsteady 
in  his  gaze.  Jklaggie.  when  she  saw  him,  felt  nothing  but  a  rush 
of  pity  and  desire  to  protect  him.  Very  strangely  she  felt  the 
similarity  between  him  and  herself.  Nobody  wanted  cither  of 
them — they  must  just  love  one  another  because  there  was  no  one 
else  to  love  them. 

She  was  aware  then  that  Grace  had  risen  and  was  standing 
looking  at  them  both. 

She  turned  round  to  her  saying,  "Grace,  this  i^  my  uncle. 
Tou've  heard  me  speak  of  hint,  haven't  you  i  He  was  very  kind 
to  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl  .  .  .  Uncle,  this  is  my  sister-in- 
law,  iliss  Trenehard.'* 

Uncle  Mathcw  smiled  and.  rather  unsteadily,  came  forward;  he 
caught  her  hand  in  both  his  damp,  hot  ones.  "  Very  pleased  to 
meet  you.  Miss  Trenehard.  I  know  you've  been  very  good  to  my 
little  Maggie;  at  least  when  I  say  'my  little  Maggie'  she's  not 
mine  any  longer.  She  belongs  to  your  brother  now,  doesn't  she? 
Of  course  she  does.    I  hope  you're  well." 

Maggie  realised  then  the  terrified  distress  in  Grace's  eyes.  The 
grey  stocking  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  (Jrace  stared  at  I'ttcle 
Mathew  in  a  kind  of  fascinated  horror.  She  realised  of  course  at 
once  that  he  was  what  she  would  call  "  tipsy."  He  was  not 
"  tipsy,"  but  nevertheless  "  tipsy  "  enough  for  Grace.  Maggie  saw 
her  take  in  ever>'  detail  of  his  appearance — his  unshaven  cheeks, 
the  wisps  of  hair  over  the  bald  top  of  his  head,  the  spots  on  his 
waistcoat,  the  mud  on  his  boots,  and  again  as  she  watched  Grace 
make  this  summary,  love  and  protection  for  that  unhappy  man 
filled  her  heart.  For  unhappy  he  was!  She  saw  at  once  thjit  he 
had  had  a  long  slide  downhill  since  his  last  visit  to  her.  He  was 
frightened — frightened  immediately  now  of  Grace  and  the  room 
and  the  physical  world — but  frightened  also  behind  these  things 
at  some  spectre  oil  his  own.  Grace  snt  down  and  tried  to  recover 
herself.  She  began  to  talk  in  her  society  voice.  Maggie  knew  that 
she  was  praying,  over  and  over  again,  with  a  monotony  possible 
only  to  the  very  stupid,  that  there  would  be  no  callers  that  after- 
noon. 

"And  so  you  know  Glebeshire.  Mr.  Cardinal!  Fancy!  I've 
never  been  there — never  been  there  in  my  life.  Fancy  that! 
Although  so  many  of  my  rehitinns  live  there.  I  once  nearly  went 
down,  one  wet  Christmas,  and  I  was  going  to  stay  with  my  aunt, 


i 


'fl 


362 


THE  CAPTIVES 


I  think  I  caught  a  cold 
But  fancy  you  knowing 


but  something  happened  to  prevent  me. 
at  the  time.  I  can't  quite  remember. 
Glebeahire  so  well  t  " 

All  this  came  out  in  a  voice  that  might  have  issued  from  a 
gramophone,  so  little  did  it  represent  Grace's  real  feelings  or 
emotions.  Maggie  knew  so  well  that  inside  her  head  these  ex- 
clamations were  rising  and  falling:  "  What  a  horrible  man  I  What 
a  dreadful  man!  Maggie's  uncle!  We're  lost  if  any  one  calls! 
Oh  1  I  do  hope  no  one  colls  I ' 

It  was  obvious  meanwhile  that  Mathew  was  urgently  wishing 
for  a  moment  alone  with  Maggie.  He  looked  at  her  with  pleading 
eyes,  and  once  he  winked  towards  Grace.  He  talked  on,  however, 
running  some  of  his  words  into  one  another  and  paying  very  little 
attention  to  anything  that  Grace  might  say:  "No,  I  haven't  seen 
my  little  niece.  Miss  Tronchard,  for  a  long  time— didn't  like  to 
interfere,  in  a  way.  Thought  she'd  ask  for  me  when  she  wanted 
me.  We've  always  been  the  greatest  friends.  I'm  a  bachelor,  you 
see— never  married.  Not  that  I'd  like  you  to  fancy  that  I've  no 
interest  in  the  other  sex,  far  from  it,  but  I'm  a  wanderer  by 
nature.  A  wife  in  every  port,  perhaps.  Well,  who  knows!  But 
one's  lonely  at  times,  one  is  indeed.  A  pretty  tidy  little  place 
you've  got  here.    Yes,  you  have — with  a  garden  too." 

Paul  came  in.  and  Maggie  saw  him  start  as  Mathew's  stout 
figure  surprised  him.  She  felt  then  a  rush  of  hostility  against 
Paul.  It  was  as  though,  at  every  point,  she  must  run  in  fiercely 
to  defend  her  uncle. 

Meanwhile  Grace's  worst  fears  were  realised.  The  little  maid 
announced  Miss  Purves  and  Mrs.  Maxse.  A  terrible  half-hour 
followed.  Miss  Purves,  as  soon  as  she  understood  that  this  strange 
man  was  Mrs.  Trenchard's  uncle,  was  all  eager  excitement,  and 
Uncle  Mathew,  bewildered  by  so  many  strangers,  confused  by  o 
little  unsteadiness  in  his  legs  that  would  have  been  nothing  had  he 
not  been  in  a  small  room  crowded  with  furniture,  finally  clasped 
Mrs.  Maxse  by  the  shoulder  in  hia  endeavour  to  save  himself  from 
tumbling  over  the  little  table  that  held  the  cakes  and  bread-and- 
butter.  His  hot,  heavy  hand  pressed  into  Mrs.  Maxse's  flesh,  and 
Mrs.  Maxse,  terrified  indeed,  screamed. 

He  began  to  apologise,  and  in  his  agitation  jerked  Miss  Purves' 
cup  of  tea  from  the  table  on  to  the  floor. 

After  that  he  realised  that  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  go.  He 
began  elaborate  apoloRies.  Paul  saw  him  to  the  door.  He  gripped 
Paul  by  the  hand :  "  I'm  dclighfetl  to  have  met  you, "  he  said  in  full 
hearing  of  the  trembling  ladies.    "You've  given  me  such  a  good 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR   3C;t 

time.  Givo  my  little  Ueggie  a  good  time  too.  She's  not  looking 
over  well.    Send  her  up  to  London  to  stajr  with  me  for  a  bit." 

Maggie  6UW  him  to  the  gate.  In  the  middle  of  the  little  drive 
he  stopp«<l,  turning  towards  her,  leaning  bis  hands  heavily  upon 
her.  "  Maggie  dear,"  he  said,  "  I'm  in  a  bad  way,  a  very  bad 
way.    You  won't  desert  me  i " 

"  Of  course  I  won't,"  she  answered.  "  I  may  want  your  help  in 
a  week  or  two." 

He  looked  dismally  about  him.  at  the  thick,  dull  laurel  bushes 
and  the  heavy,  grey  sky.  "  I  don't  like  this  place,  Maggie,"  he 
said.  "  and  all  those  women.  It's  religion  again,  and  it's  worse 
than  that  Cbap(?l.  You  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  get  away  from 
religion.    You're  not  happy,  my  dear." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  she  answered  firmly. 

"  No,  you're  not.  And  I'm  not.  But  it  will  be  all  right  in  the 
end.  I've  no  doubt.    You'll  never  desert  me,  Maggie." 

"  I'll  never  desert  you."  Maggie  answered. 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  his  breath  whisky-laden.  She 
kissed  him  eagerly,  tenderly.  For  a  moment  she  felt  that  she 
would  go  with  him,  just  as  she  was,  and  leave  them  all. 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  "you  understand  how  it  is,  don't  you?  We'd 
have  asked  you  to  stay  if  we'd  known." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right."  He  looked  at  her  mysteriously.  "  That 
new  sister-in-law  of  yours  was  shocked  with  me.  They  wouldn't 
have  me  in  the  house.  I  saw  that.  And  I  only  had  one  glass  at 
the  station.  I'm  not  much  of  a  man  in  society  now.  That's  the 
trouble.  .  .  .  But  next  time  I'll  come  down  and  just  send  you 
a  line  and  you'll  come  to  see  me  in  my  own  little  place — won't 
you  ?  I'm  in  the  devil  of  a  mess.  Maggie,  that's  the  truth,  and  I 
don't  know  how  to  get  out  of  it.    I've  been  a  bit  of  a  fool,  I  have." 

She  saw  the  look  of  terror  in  his  eye  again. 

"  Would  some  money "  she  suggested. 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  it's  past  five  pounds  now.  my  dear."  He  sighed 
heavily.  "  Well,  I  must  be  getting  along.  You'll  catch  your  death 
of  cold  standing  out  here.  We  ought  to  have  been  together  all  this 
time,  you  know.    It  would  have  been  better  for  both  of  us." 

He  kissed  her  again  and  left  her.  She  slowly  returned  into  the 
house.  Curiously,  he  had  made  her  happier  by  his  visit.  Her 
pluck  returned.  She  needed  it.  Grace  was  now  stirred  by  the 
most  active  of  all  her  passions — fear. 

Nevertheless  Oraee  and  Paul  l)ehaved  very  well.  MeBirie  under- 
stood the  shock  that  visit  mu«t  have  given  them.  She  watched 
Grace  imagining  the  excited  stories  that  would  low  from  the  lips 


364 


THE  CAPTIVES 


of  MiM  PurvM  and  Mrs.  Muse.  She  was  determined,  however, 
that  Graix  and  Paul  should  not  suffer  in  silence— and  Uncle 
Mathew  must  be  vindicated. 

At  supper  that  night  she  plunged : 

"  Uncle  Mathew's  beeit  very  ill,"  she  began,  "  for  n  long  time 
now.  He  wasn't  himself  this  afternoon,  I'm  afraid.  lie  was  very 
upset  at  some  news  that  he'd  just  had.  And  then  meeting  so  many 
strangers  at  once " 

Maggie  saw  that  Grocc  r.'oided  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  think  we'll  Hv  ...as  it,  Maggie,  if  you  don't  mind.  Mr. 
Cardinal  wos  strange  n  his  behaviour,  certainly.  It  was  a  pity 
that  Miss  Purves  cam.    ilut  it's  better  not  to  discuss  it." 

"  I  don't  agree,"  saio  Maggie.  "  If  you  think  that  I'm  ashamed 
of  Uncle  Mathew  you're  quite  wrong.     He's  very  unhappy  and 

lonely "     She  felt  her  voice  tremble.     "lie  hasn't  got  any 

one  to  look  after  him " 

Grace's  hand  was  trembling  as  she  nervously  crumbled  her  bread. 
Still  without  looking  at  Maggie  she  said: 

"By  the  way,  you  did  the  church  flowers  this  morning  didn't 

Maggie  turned  white  and,  as  always  on  these  occasions,  her  heart 
thumped,  leaping,  as  it  seemed,  into  the  very  palms  of  her  hands. 

"  But  it  was  to-morrow "  she  began. 

"  You  remember  that  I  told  you  three  days  ago  that  it  was  to  be 
this   morning   instead   of   the   usual   Thursday   because   of   the 

Morgans'  wedding."  ,    t  v  j  ■   j    j 

"Oh,  Grace,  I'm  so  sorry  I  I  had  remembered,  1  had  inaeed, 
and  then  Lucy  suddenly  having  that  chill " 

Paul  struck  in.  "  Really,  Maggie,  that's  too  bad.  No  flowers 
to-morrow  ?  Those  others  were  (luite  dead  yesterday.  I  noticed  at 
evensong.  .   .   .  Really,  really.    And  the  Morgana' wedding ! " 

Maggie  sat  there,  trembling. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said,  almost  whispering.  Why  did  fate 
play  against  her?  Why.  when  she  might  have  fought  the  Uncle 
Mathew  battle  victoriously,  had  Grace  suddenly  been  given  this 
weapon  with  which  to  strike  ? 

"  I'll  go  and  do  them  now,"  she  said.  "  I  can  take  those  flowers 
out  of  the  drawing-room." 

"  It's  done,"  Grace  slowly  savouring  her  triumph.  "  I  did  them 
aiyself  this  afternoon." 

" Then  you  should  have  told  me  that! "  Maggie  burst  out.  " It's 
not  fail  makinsr  me  mi«erable  just  for  your  own  fun.  You  don't 
know  how  ycu  hurt,  Grace.    You're  cruel,  you're  cruel! " 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SKEATON:  SECOND  YKAR      365 

She  had  a  horrible  fear  lest  she  xhoulH  bunt  into  tears.  Tu  tave 
that  terrible  disaster  iho  jumped  up  and  ran  out  of  tb»  room,  hear- 
ing behind  her  Paul's  admonitory  "  Maggie,  Maggie  t " 

It  i>  to  be  expected  that  Mrs.  Ma.X8e  and  Miu  Purres  made  the 
most  of  their  story.  The  Rector's  wife  and  a  drunken  uncle!  No. 
it  WHS  too  good  to  be  true  ...  but  it  «•««  true,  nevertheless. 

Christmas  passed  and  the  horrible  damp  .January  days  arrived. 
Skeaton  wns  a  dripping  covering  of  emptiness — hollow,  shallow, 
deserted.  Every  tree,  Maggie  thought,  dripped  twire  as  much  as 
any  other  tree  in  Europe.  It  remained  for  Caroline  Purdie  to 
complete  the  situation.  One  mo.-ning  ut  breakfast  the  story  burst 
upon  Maggie's  cars.  Qracc  was  too  deeply  moved  and  excited  to 
remember  her  ht-itlity.    She  poured  out  the  tale. 

It  appeared  th.Tt  for  many  many  months  Caroline  had  not  been 
the  wife  she  should  have  been.  No;  there  had  been  a  young  man, 
a  Mr.  Bennett  from  London.  The  whole  town  had  hnd  its  sus- 
picions, had  raised  its  pointing  finger,  had  peeped  and  peered  and 
whispered.  The  only  person  who  had  notice<l  nothing  was  Mr. 
Purdie  himself.  He  must,  of  course,  have  seen  that  his  house 
was  filled  with  noisy  young  men  and  noisier  young  women;  he 
must  have  realised  that  his  bills  were  high,  that  champagne  was 
drunk  and  cards  were  played,  and  that  his  wife's  attire  was  fan- 
tastically gorgeous.  At  any  rate,  if  he  noticed  these  things  he  said 
nothing.  IIo  was  a  dull,  silent,  slow-thinking  man,  people  said. 
Then  one  day  he  went  up  to  London  or  rather,  in  the  manner  of 
the  best  modern  problem  play,  he  pretended  to  go.  returned 
abruptly,  and  discovered  Caroline  in  the  arms  of  Mr.  Bennett. 

He  flung  Mr.  Bennett  out  of  the  bedroom  window,  breukiii^  liis 
leg  and  his  nose,  and  that  was  why  every  one  knew  the  story. 
What  he  said  to  Caroline  was  uncertain.  He  did  not,  however, 
pack  her  off,  as  Miss  Purves  said  he  should  have  done,  but  rather 
kept  her  in  the  big  ugly  house,  just  os  he  had  done  before,  only 
now  without  the  young  men,  the  young  women,  the  champagne  and 
the  flowers. 

"I  must  go  and  see  her,"  said  Maggie  when  she  heard  this 
story. 

Grace  turned  the  strange  pale  yellow  that  was  her  colour  when 
she  was  disturbed. 

"Maggie,"  she  said,  "T  worn  you  that  if  you  go  to  see  this 
abandoned  woman  you  will  be  insulting  Paul  and  myself  before 
the  whole  town." 

"  She  is  my  friend,"  said  Maggie. 

"  She  is  a  wicked  woman,"  said  Grace,  breathing  very  heavily. 


366 


THE  CAPTIVES 


You  hivo 


"ind  you're  >  wicked  women  if  you  go  to  tee  her. 
■Iieed*  mede  Feul  miMrable."  ... 

«  At  ii  untrue."  M.«>i.  -id  fiercely.  •'  It  i.  I  ttiet  here  b^n 
miierible.    Not  thet  it  hein't  been  my  own  feult    I  ehould  never 

bare  mirried  Paul."  .        .     i    l.  i 

"No  you  ihould  not,"  -id  Orece,  breething  u  though  .he  bed 
been  running  very  herd.  "And  for  that  I  w..  P'rtlj'  »», "•'":; 
But  fancy  what  you've  done  iince  you've  been  with  uil  Juti 
fancy  I    It's  terrible  .   .   .  never  a  greater  mi.take  .   .   .  never, 

"'Sligie  toMed  her  head.  "Well,  if  it  wa.  a  mi.Ukc,"  »he  said 
"the  end  of  pretending  ha.  come  at  la.t  I've  been  trying  fo. 
nearly  two  year,  now  to  go  your  way  and  Paul..  I  <=«»' J°  >»• 
I~an't  alter  my«lf.  I've  tried,  and  I  can't.  I''' >'""•?„, O""^; 
we'd  never  get  on.  I  «e  it',  been  hopcleo.  from  the  first.  But 
you  .han't  make  Paul  hate  me.  You've  been  t^ing  your  harde.t, 
but  you  .han't  .ucceed.  I  know  that  I'm  .tupid  aj"!  «»!"1««''  ,^"' 
it',  no  use  my  pretending  to  be  good  and  quiet  and  obedient.  1  m 
not  good.  I'm  not  quiet.  I'm  not  obedient.  I"  8|""«  «» ''l"^; 
.elf  now.    I'm  going  to  have  the  friend.  I  want  and  do  the  things 

I  want." 
Grace  moved  hack  a.  though  die  thought  that  Maggie  were  going 

*°« You're  wicked,"  .he  .aid.  "What  about  thoM  letter,  in  your 
drawer!    You've  never  loved  Paul."  „rr    ' 

"  So  you've  been  opening  my  drawer. « "  .aid  Maggie.  You  re 
worse  than  I,  Grace.  I  never  opened  any  one.  drawer,  nor  read 
letter.  I  .houldn't.  But  it  doe.n't  matter.  There',  nothing  I  want 
to  hide.    Paul  knows  all  about  it.    I'm  not  ashamed. 

"  No.  you're  not,"  Grace's  eyes  were  large  with  terror.  You  re 
ashamed  at  nothing.  You've  made  every  one  in  the  place  laugh 
at  u..  You've  ruined  Paul',  life  he^-K'.  y<>"  hf  J-  ^"*l°V 
don't  care.  Do  you  think  I  mind  for  my«lf»  But  I  love  Pau  . 
and  I've  looked  after  him  all  hi.  life,  and  he  wa.  happy  until  you 
came-ye.,  he  wa..  You've  made  us  aU  laughed  at.  You  re  bad 
,11  through,  Maggie,  and  the  laws  of  the  Church  aren't  anything 

*°TSere*w«"a  pause.  Maggie,  a  little  cahner,  «««»«J  G;?«»- "^^ 
had  sunk  into  a  chair.  She  saw  that  stout  middle-aged  woman 
with  the  flat  expressionless  face  and  the  dull  eyes.  She  saw  the 
flabby  hands  nervously  trembling,  and  she  longed  suddenly  to  be 

kind  and  affectionate.  ..       ■, 

"Oh,  Grace,"  die  cried.     "I  know   I've  been  everything  I 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SKEATON:  SECOND  YEAR      367 

-hnuldn't,  only  don't  you  Me  1  can't  give  up  my  friendtt  And 
I  told  Paul  before  we  married  that  I'd  loved  tome  one  oIm  and 
vato't  religioua.  But  pcrbapa  it  ian't  luo  late.  Let'a  be  frienda. 
ni  try  harder  than  over  before " 

Then  ahe  saw.  in  the  way  that  Grace  shrank  back,  her  eyeti  itar- 
Ing  with  the  glaied  fascination  that  a  bird  hus  for  a  anake,  that 
thco'  waa  m"re  than  dialike  and  jealousy  hrrc  there  was  the  wild 
unreasoning  lear  that  a  child  has  for  the  li^rk. 

"Am  [  like  that?"  was  her  own  instinctive  shuddering  thought. 
Then,  almoet  running,  she  ruihed  up  tu  her  bedroom. 


i' 


MICtOCOPY    lESOlUriON    TfST   CHABr 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No,  2| 


1.0    [rl^  1^ 
^m  H«  1^  12.2 


I.I 


!J:25   i  1.4 


12.0 


1.8 


1.6 


-S     -APPLIED  IIVMGE     Ini 


1653   East    Wam   Stre 


(716)    *82  -OJOO  -  Phont 
(716)    2aa  -  5989  -  Fo. 


CHAPTER  VII 


DEATH   OF   AUST   ANNE 

MAGGIE,  after  that  flight,  faced  her  empty  room  with  a  sense 
of  horror.  Was  there,  truly,  then,  something  awful  about 
her<  The  child  (for  she  was  indeed  nothing  more)  looked  into  her 
glass,  standing  on  tip-toe  that  she  might  peer  sufficiently  and  saw 
her  face,  pale,  with  its  large  dark  eyes  rimmed  by  the  close-clipped 
hair.  Was  she  then  awfuH  First  her  father,  then  her  aunts  then 
the  Warlocks,  now  Grace  and  Paul— not  only  dishke  but  fright, 

*"Her  loneliness  crushed  her  in  that  half-hour  as  it  had  never 
crushed  her  since  that  day  at  Borhedden.  She  broke  down  al- 
together, kneeling  by  the  bed  and  her  head  in  her  pi  low  sobbing: 
"Oh,  Martin,  I  want  you!    Martin,  I  want  you  so! 

When  she  was  calmer  she  thought  of  going  down  to  Paul  and 
making  another  appeal  to  him,  but  she  knew  that  such  an  appeal 
could  only  end  in  his  asking  her  to  change  herself,  beg^ng  her 
to  be  more  polite  to  Grace,  more  careful  and  less  forgetful,  and 
of  course  to  give  up  such  people  as  the  Toms  and  Caroline,  and 
then  there  would  come,  after  it  all,  the  question  as  to  whether  she 
intended  to  behave  better  to  himself,  whether  she  would  be  more 
loving,  more.  .   .   .  Oh  no!  she  could  not,  she  could  not,  jAe  couW 

""she  saw  the  impossibility  of  it  so  plainly  that  it  was  a  relief 
to  her  and  she  washed  her  face  and  brushed  her  hair  and  plucked 
up  courage  to  regard  herself  normally  once  more.  '  I  m  not  dif- 
ferent," she  said  to  the  looking-glass.  "There's  no  reason  for 
Grace  to  make  faces."  She  saw  that  the  breach  between  herself 
and  Grace  had  become  irreparable,  and  that  whatever  else  hap- 
pened in  the  future  at  least  it  was  certain  that  they  would  never 
be  friends  again.  ,    ,    „i 

She  went  downstairs  prepared  to  do  battle.  .   .   . 

Next  morning  she  paid  her  visit  to  Caroline.  It  was  a  strange 
affair.  The  girl  was  sitting  alone  in  her  over-gorgeous  house 
her  hands  on  her  lap,  looking  out  of  the  window,  an  unusual 
position  for  her  to  be  in.  _,,.,_    *:„„  t\,.t 

Caroline  was  at  first  very  stiff  and  haughty,  expecting  that 
Maggie  had  come  to  scold  her. 

368 


DEATH  OP  AUNT  ANNE 


369 


^1 1  just  looked  in  to  see  how  you  were,"  said  Moggie 
You  might  have  come  before,"  answered  Caroline.    "  It's  years 
since  jou've  been  near  me."  ' 

"I  didn't  lil^e  all  those  people  you  had  in  your  house,"  S8=d 
Maggie.       I  like  it  better  now  there's  no  one  in  it " 

That  was  not,  perhaps,  very  tactful  of  her.     (Jaroliuo  flushed. 
I  could  have  them  all  here  now  if  I  wanted  to  ask  them,"  she 
answered  angrily. 

m13!"'..^t'?  ^"^  ^^^^  y"?'''   "">"  •>«   '^"hout  them,"   said 
?<^i. ;     J  ^'  "^"""^  ''"'■"'y  °^  y"'  Caroline." 

hr„k»„L  "n/  *^  "'"  T"f  °"  '""''"8  "'"'  ">is-"'  Caroline 
broke  out.  Of  course  you've  heard  all  about  everything  Eve.-v 
one  has.  I  cant  put  my  nose  outside  the  door  without  them 
all  peering  at  me.  I  hate  them  all-all  of  them-and  the  place 
too,  and  every  one  in  it." 
"  I  expect  you  do "  said  Maggie  sympathetically. 

.11  ^^-^V  T^^  ""'"*'"  ""^y'"*  "o™'-  done  anything  wrong 
all  their  days  It  was  mostly  Alfred's  fault  too.  What  does  hi 
expect  when  he  leaves  me  all  alone  here  week  after  week  eating 
ones  heart  out.  One  must  do  something  with  one's  time.  Just 
like  all  men!  At  first  there's  nothing  too  good  for  you,  then  when 
they  get  used  to  it  they  can't  be  bothered  about  anything  I 
wonder  what  a  man  thinks  married  life  is?  Then  to  listen  to 
Alfred,  you  d  think  we  were  still  living  in  the  days  of  the  Good 
Qjeen  Victona-you  would  indeed.  Wouldn't  let  me  go  up  to 
London  alone!  There's  a  nice  thing  for  you.  And  all  because 
he  did  let  me  go  once  and  I  meant  to  stay  with  mother  and 
mother  was  away.  So  I  had  to  sleep  at  a  hotel.  Why  shouldn't 
I  sleep  at  a  hotel!  I'm  not  a  baby.  And  now  he  keeps  me  here 
like  a  prisoner.  Just  as  though  I  were  in  jail." 
"  Is  he  unkind  to  you  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"No,  he  isn't.  It's  his  horrible  kindness  I  can't  stand  He 
won  t  divorce  me,  he  won't  let  me  go  away,  he  just  keeps  me  here 
and  18  so  kind  and  patient  that  I  could  kill  him.     I  shall  one 

day.     I  know  I  shall."     She  stood  for  a  moment,  pouting  and 

looking  out  of  the  window.    Then  suddenly  she  turned  and,  flinging 

her  arms  around  Maggie,  burst  into  tsars. 
"Oh,    Maggie!     I'm   so   miserable.    ...    I'm    so   miserable. 

Maggie!    Why  did  I  ever  come  here?    Why  did  I  ever  marry? 

1  was  so  happy  at  home  with  mother." 

Maggie  comforted  her,  persuading  her  that  all  would  soon  be 

well,  that  people  very  quickly  forgot  their  little  pieces  of  scandal 

and  that  so  long  as  she  did  not  run  away  or  do  anything  really 


370  THE  CAPTIVES 

desperate  all  would  come  right.  Maggie  diaeoTered  *«*  Cuoline 
had  escaped  from  her  crisis  with  an  ""=""f  .-:«"?«=' /"f.'X 
aSection  for  her  husband.  She  was  a.ra.d  of  h™.  and  w„  the 
sort  of  woman  who  must  be  afr.Hd  of  her  husband  before  her 
married  life  can  settle  into  any  kind  of  security. 
"And  I  thought  you'd  altogether  abandoned  me!'  she  ended 
"I  wasn't  coming  while   all  those  people  were  about,     said 

^'•You  darling!"  cried  Caroline,  kissing  her.  "Just  the  same 
as  you  used  to  be.  I  was  angry  I  can  tell  you  when  month  after 
month  went  by  and  you  never  came  "«""«•.  ^^f^^^'b 
people  when  they  asked  me  that  you  were  odd.  Shea  not  a  bit 
X  othir  people  ■  I  would  say; '  not  a  bit  and  it^s  no  «-  expecUng 
her  to  be.  She's  always  been  queer.  I  used  to  know  her  in 
London.'  They  do  think  you  odd  here,  darling.  They  do  indeed. 
No  one  understands  you.  So  odd  for  a  clergyman's  wife.  Well 
so  you  are,  aren't  youi    I  always  te!l  them  you  had  no  bringing 

"^Caroline  in  fact  very  quickly  recovered  her  flow.  As  soon  as 
she  found  that  Maggie  was  not  stocked  she  reasserted  her  old 
superiority.  Before  the  visit  was  over  she  had  rather  despised 
mS  for  not  being  shocked.    At  Maggie's  departure,  however, 

she  was  very  loving.  .       ,    ,.  >. »    t*'<.  r.n  use 

"You  will  come  soon  again,  darling,  won't  you?  !*»  °»  "^ 
asking  you  to  dinner  because,  of  course,  your  husband  vjont 
come  But  look  in  any  afternoon-or  we  might  go  for  a  dnre 
in  the  motor.    Good-bye— good-bye^' 

Maggie,  on  her  return,  found  Grace  looking  at  *e  m  f -day 
post  in  the  haU.  She  always  did  this  in  a  very  short-sighted 
way.  t«k  ng  up  the  letters  one  by  one,  holding  each  very  close 
To  her  eyes!  and  sniffing  at  it  as  though  she  were  trying  to  «ad 
hrough  the  envelope.  This  always  irritated  Ma^ie,  although 
her  o^  letters  were  not  very  many.  To-night  when  she  heard 
the  hall  door  open,  she  turned  and  dropped  the  leters,  giving 
that  especial  creaking  little  gasp  that  she  always  did  when  she 
was  startled.  _„,       ,  t.       tn 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Maggie,  is  it?    Where've  you  been? 

"  I've  been  to  see  Mrs.  Purdie,"  Maggie  said  defiantly. 

Grace  paused  as  though  she  were  going  to  speak,  then  turned 
on  her  hLl.  But  just  rs  she  reached  the  sitting-room  door  she 
said,  breathing  heavily .  ^_ 

"  There's  a  telegram  for  you  there.  .  ,    ,    .,  j 

Mag^"  saw  it  lying  on  the  table.     She  picked  it  »P  and 


DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANNE 


371 


hesitated.  A  wild  beating  of  the  heart  told  her  that  it  must  bo 
from  Martin.  She  didn't  know  what  told  her  this  except  that 
now  for  9o  long  she  had  been  expecting  to  see  a  telegram  lying 
in  just  this  way  on  the  table,  waiting  for  her.  She  took  it  up 
with  a  hand  that  trembled.    Sho  tore  it  open  and  read: 

"Co.ne  at  once.  Your  aunt  dying.  Wishes  to  see  you. 
Magnus." 

No  need  to  ask  which  aunt.  When  one  aunt  was  mentioned 
it  was  Aunt  Anne — of  course.  Oh,  poor  Aunt  Anne!  Maggie 
longed  for  her,  longed  to  be  with  her.  longed  to  be  kind  to  her, 
longed  to  comfort  her.  And  Mr.  Magnus  and  Martha  and  Aunt 
Elizabeth  and  the  cat — she  must  go  at  once,  she  must  catch  a  train 
after  luncheon. 

She  went  impetuously  into  her  husband's  study. 

"Oh,  Paull"  she  cried.  "Aunt  Anne's  dying,  and  I  must 
go  to  her  at  once." 

Paul  was  sitting  in  his  old  armchair  before  the  fire;  he  was 
wearing  faded  brown  slippers  that  flapped  at  his  heels;  his  white 
hair  was  tangled;  his  legs  were  crossed,  the  fat  broad  thighs 
pressing  out  against  the  shiny  black  cloth  of  his  trousers.  He 
was  chuckling  over  an  instalment  of  Anthony  Trollope's  "  Brown 
Jones  and  Robinson  "  in  a  very  ancient  Cornhill. 

He  looked  up.    "  Maggie,  you  know  it's  my  sermon-morning — 

interruptions "     He  had  dropped  the  Cornhill,  but  not  fast 

enough  to  hide  it  from  her. 

She  looked  around  at  the  dirty  untidinesF  the  study.  "  It's 
all  my  fault,  this,"  she  thought.  "  I  should  .  ,  /e  kept  him  clean 
and  neat  and  keen  on  his  work.    I  haven't.    I've  failed." 

Then  her  next  thought  was:  "Grace  wouldn't  let  me " 

The  study,  in  fact,  was  more  untidy  than  ever,  the  pictures 
were  back  in  their  places  whence  Maggie  had  once  removed 
them. 

'  ^sband  and  wife  looked  at  one  another.     If  she  felt ;  "  I've 
managed  my  duty,"  he  felt  perhaps:  "What  a  child  she  is 
alter  all!"    But  bevween  them  there  was  the  gulf  of  their  past 
experience. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  he  said,  yawning.  "Is  she  an  old 
lady!" 

"  No,  she's  not,"  said  Maggie,  breathing  very  quickly.  "  I  love 
her  very  much.  I've  been  thinking.  Paul,  I've  not  been  good 
about  my  relations  all  this  time.  I  ought  to  have  seen  them  more. 
I  must  go  up  to  London  at  once." 

"  If  your  aunt's  bad  and  wants  you,  I  suppose  you  must,"  he 


372 


THE  CAPTIVES 


answered.  He  got  up  and  came  orer  to  her.  He  kissed  her 
suddenly. 

"  You'll  be  irantinf  some  money,"  he  said.  "  Don't  be  long 
away.    I'll  miss  you." 

She  caught  the  2.30  train.  It  seemed  very  strange  to  her 
to  be  sitting  in  it  alone  after  the  many  mouths  when  she  had 
been  always  either  with  Grace  or  Paul.  An  odd  sense  of  adventure 
surrounded  her,  and  she  felt  as  though  she  were  now  at  last 
approaching  the  climax  to  which  the  slow  events  of  the  last  two 
years  had  been  leading.  When  she  had  been  a  little  girl  one  of 
the  few  interesting  books  in  the  house  had  been  The  Mysteries  of 
Udulplio.  She  could  see  the  romance  now,  with  its  four  dumpy 
volumes,  the  F's  so  confusingly  like  S's,  the  faded  print,  and 
the  yellowing  page. 

She  could  remember  little  enough  of  it,  but  there  had  been  one 
scene  near  the  beginning  of  the  story  when  the  heroine,  Emily, 
looking  for  something  in  the  dusk,  had  noticed  some  lines  pencilled 
on  the  wainscot;  these  mysterious  pencilled  lines  had  been  the 
beginning  of  all  iier  troubles,  and  Maggie,  as  a  small  girl,  had 
approached  sometimes  in  the  evening  dusk  the  walls  of  her  attic 
to  see  whether  there  too  verses  had  been  scribbled.  Now,  obscure 
in  the  corner  of  her  carriage,  she  felt  as  though  the  telegram 
had  been  a  pencilled  message  presaging  some  great  event  that  would 
shortly  change  her  life. 

It  was  a  dark  and  gloomy  day,  misty  with  a  gale  of  wind 
that  blew  the  smoke  inti  curls  and  eddies  against  the  sky.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  roar  a'  .at  the  vast  London  station  tht  threatened 
her  personally,  but  she  beat  down  her  fears,  found  a  taxi,  and  gave 
the  driver  the  wcll-remembered  address. 

As  they  drove  along  she  felt  how  much  older,  how  much  older 
she  was  then  than  when  she  was  last  in  London.  Then  she  had 
been  ignorant  of  all  life  and  the  world,  now  she  felt  that  she  was 
an  old,  old  woman  with  an  infinite  knowledge  of  marriage  and 
men  and  women  and  the  way  they  lived.  She  looked  upon  her 
aunts  and  indeed  all  that  world  that  had  surrounded  the  Chapel 
as  something  infinitely  childish,  and  for  that  reason  rather  sweet 
and  touching.  She  could  be  kind  and  friendly  even  to  Amy 
Warlock  she  thought.  She  wished  that  she  had  some  excuse  so 
that  she  might  stay  in  London  a  week  or  two.  She  felt  that  she 
could  stretch  her  limbs  and  breathe  again  now  that  she  was  out 
of  Grace's  sight. 

And  she  would  find  out  Uncle  Mathew's  address  and  pay  him 
a   surprise  visit.  .   .   .  She   laughed   in   the   cab   and   felt   gay 


DEATH  OP  AUNT  ANNE  373 

and  light-hearted  until  she  remembered  the  cause  of  bcr  vi-.it 
Poor,  poor  Aunt  Annel  Oh,  she  did  hope  that  she  would  bo 
well  enough  to  recognise  her  and  to  show  pleasure  at  seeing  her 
Ihe  cab  had  stopped  in  the  well-remerabercd  street  before  the  snniu 
old  seeret-lookm,  house.  Nothing  seemed  to  have  changed,  and 
the  sight  of  It  all  brought  Martin  back  to  her  with  so  fierce  a 
pang  that  for  a  moment  breath  seemed  to  have  her  body  It 
was  just  near  here,  only  a  few  steps  away,  that  he  had  suddenly 
appeared  as  though  from  the  very  paving-stones,  when  she  had 
been  with  Uncle  Mathew,  and  then  had  gone  to  supper  with  him. 
It  was  from  this  door  that  he  had  run  on  that  last  desperate  day. 
She  looked  up  at  the  windows;  the  blinds  were  not  <lown- 
her  aunt  was  yet  alive;  she  paid  the  taxi  and  rang  tl.o 
bell. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Martha,  who  seemed  infinitely  older 
and  more  wrinkled  than  on  the  last  occasion,  her  old  face  was 
yellow  like  drawn  parchment  and  her  thin  grey  hairs  were  pasi  J 
hack  over  her  old  skull;  she  was  wearing  black  mittens. 

"Miss  Maggie!"  and  there  was  a  real  welcome  in  her  voice 
Maggie  was  drawn  into  the  dark  little  hall  that  smelt  of  cracknel 
biscuits  and  lamp  oil,  there  was  the  green  baizi  door,  and  then 
suddenly  the  shrill  cry  of  the  parrot,  and  then,  out  of  the  dark 
tiip  faery  eyes  of  Thomas  the  cat. 

"Oh,  Miss  Maggie;"  said  Martha.  "Or  1  suppose  I  should 
say  'Mrs.'  now.    It's  a  long,  long  time.  ..." 

II  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Maggie.    "  How  is  my  aunt  ?  " 

"  If  she  lives  through  the  night  they'll  be  surprised,"  Martha 
answeied,  wheezing  and  sighing.    "  Yes,  the  doctor  says-'  If  Miss 

Cardinal  sees  morning,'  he  says "    Then  as  Maggie  hesitated 

at   the  bottom  of  the  staircase.     "  If  you'd  go  straight  to   the 
drawing-room.  Miss,  Mum,  Mr.  Magnus  is  waiting  tea  for  you 

Maggie  went  up,  past  the  Armed  Men  into  the  old  room.  She 
could  have  kissed  all  the  things  for  their  old  remembered  in- 
timacy and  friendliness,  the  pictures,  the  books,  the  old  faded 
carpet,  the  fire-screen,  the  chairs  and  wall-papers.  There  too 
was  Mr.  Magnus,  looking  just  as  he  used  to  look,  with  his  spectacles 
and  his  projecting  ear.s,  his  timid  smile  and  apologetic  voice  Hi' 
did  seem  for  a  moment  afraid  of  her,  then  her  boyish  air  hei- 
unfeigned  pleasure  and  happiness  at  being  back  there  again  and 
a  certain  childish  awkwardness  with  which  she  shook  hands 
and  sat  herself  behind  the  little  tea-table  reassured  him- 

"  You're  not  changed  at  all,"  he  told  her. 


"  THE  CAPTIVES 

"Isn't  that  dreadful?"  she  said;  "when  all  the  way  in  the 
cab  I've  been  telling  myself  how  utterly  different  I  am." 
"I  suppose  you  feel  older?"  he  asked  her. 
"Older I     Why,   jenturies!" 
"  You  don't  look  a  day,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her. 
"  That's  my  short  hair,"  she  answered,  smiling  back  at  him, 
"  and  not  being  able  to  wear  my  clothes  like  a  grown  woman. 
It's  a  fact  t.hat  I  can't  get  used  to  long  skirts,  and  in  Skeaton 

it's  bad  form  to  cross  your  knees.    I  try  and  remember "  she 

sighed.    "  The  truth  is  I  forget  everything  just  as  I  used  to." 

"How  is  Aunt?"  she  asked  him.  He  looked  very  grave,  and 
behind  his  smiles  and  welcome  to  her  she  saw  that  he  was  a 
tired  and  even  exhausted  man. 

"  They  don't  think  she  can  live  through  the  night,"  he  answered 
her,  "  but,  thank  God,  she's  out  of  all  pain  and  will  never  suSer 
any  more.  She's  tranquil  in  her  mind  too,  and  the  one  thing 
she  wanted  to  put  her  quiet  was  to  see  you.  She's  been  worrying 
about  you  for  months.  Why  didn't  you  come  up  to  see  us  all  this 
time,  Maggie?  That  wasn't  kind  of  you." 
"  No,  it  wasn't,"  said  Maggie.  "  But  I  didn't  dare." 
"Didn't  dare?"  he  asked,  astonished. 

"  No,  there  were  things  all  this  would  have  reminded  me  of 
too  badly.    It  wasn't  safe  to  be  reminded  of  them." 

"Haven't  you  been  happy,  then,  there!"  he  asked  her  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  didn't  look  up  at  him.  "I  made  a 
mistake  in  doing  it.  It  was  my  fault,  not  theirs.  No,  I  haven't 
been  happy  if  you  want  to  know.  And  I  shan't  be.  There's  no 
chance.  It's  all  wrong;  they  all  hate  me.  I  seem  to  them  odd, 
mad,  like  a  witch  they  used  to  bum  in  the  old  days.  And  I  can't 
alter  myself.     And  I  don't  want  to." 

It  was  amazing  what  good  it  did  her  to  bring  all  this  out. 
She  had  said  none  of  it  to  any  one  before. 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  sighed  Mr.  Magnu  .  "I  hadn't  known. 
I  thought  it  was  all  going  so  well.  But  don't  tell  your  aunt  this. 
When  she  asks  you,  say  you're  very,  very  happy  and  it's  all  going 
perfectly.  She  must  die  at  peace.  Will  you,  my  dear,  will  you  ? " 
His  almost  trembling  anxiety  touched  her. 
"Why,  dear  Mr.  Magnus,  of  course  I  will.  And  I  am  happy 
now  that  I'm  back  with  all  of  you.     AH  I  want  is  for  people  to 

be  fond  of  me,  you  know,  but  there's  something  in  me "     She 

jumped  up  and  stood  in  front  of  him.     "Mr.  Magnus!     You're 
wise,  you  write  books,  you  know  all  about  things,  tell  mt  -tell 


DEATH  OP  AUNT  ANNE  375 

Sho  drew  slowly  away.     Khe  sighed 

tIv  h  /""'  and  Grace  only  thought  so,"  .he  .aid. 

They  had  a  quiet  I.ttle  tea  together;  Maggie  was  longing  to  ask 

Any  books;      he  answered  smiling.     "Surely  one  would  he 

enough.  n,y  dear     I  have  one  half.finished  as  a  matter  rf  fact 

I   dnn-    T-  Tli"'"'^-     "  it  "e'en't  for  the  bread  and  butte; 

I  'I™'''""''  Ft  «™'  *°'^'''«'  i'  «8ain.     Or  rather  the  bread 

^^  What  8  It  called ! "  she  asked. 

."  mi!'*'  ^°'^  '"  ""'  ^'''^■' "  '>«  said 
..  What  a  funny  name  I     What  does  it  mean  ?  " 
I  don  t  know."     He  shook  his  head.     '•  It  meant  somethinir 
when  I  began  it   bat  the  meaning  doesn't  seem  importanT  now  " 
In  a    ittle  while  he  left  her,  saying:  "Now  if  I  were  von  T'd 

l^Vur'Tu'^t."""-  '""  '"'"  -  ^'"  ^^'^  -  -^  -■"  -a" 

She  slept,  lying  back  in  the  blue  armchair  in  front  of  the 

fn^'  T    r'/  """  '"'JP'"'^  "'""'''  "'  'i8l"  t"  «•«=  roo^    Strange 

that  shTb^f   "°^P7^''>y   ™-'''   ^"e   her   dreams.      It   seem^ 

and  that  in  r""'?      '  ""  ^'T  ^''"'  """J  «""="  ""d  Skea"^ 
and  that  in  some  strange  way  Martin  was  back  with  her  again 
the  same  old  Martin,  with  his  laugh  and  the  light  in  his  eyes' 
and  h,s  rough  red  face.     He  had  come  into  the  room-he  wa 
tretcZ    ^'^*  door  looking  at  her;  she  ran  to  him.  her  hand 
stretched  out,  cries  of  joy  on  her  lips,  but  even  as  she  reached 
him  there  was  a  cry  through  the  ho'use:  "Your  Aunt  A^nf  s 

and  he  :"  t"the''r?  ",*■""•'"  ""f  ""  '""^  ''^"^  ^^^an  to  oil 
and  she  was  in  the  Chapel  again  and  great  crowds  surged  past 
her.     Aunt  .Une's  bier  home  on  high  above  them  all.     ^he  S 


376 


THE  CAPTIVES 


iiloud,  and  voko  to  find  llr.  MaRnun  Ktanding  ut  hvr  aide;  one 
glance  at  him  tolil  ber  that  he  was  in  terrible  distrcan. 

"  You  mutt  como  at  once,"  ho  »aid.  "  Your  aunt  may  hove 
only  a  few  niinut.'s  to  livi  .'* 

Sho  followed  him,  Btill  cnly  half-awoke,  rubbing  her  lyes  with 
her  kuurkle!,  and  feeling  aa  though  she  were  continuing  that 
epi«oc!.>  when  Martha  hod  led  her  ot  the  dead  of  night  into  her 
aunt'ii  bedroom. 

Thu  chill  of  the  posaoges  howcier  woke  ber  fully,  and  then  her 
one  longing  and  desire  was  that  Aunt  Anne  should  be  conscious 
enough  to  recognise  her  and  be  aware  of  her  love  for  her. 

The  close  room,  with  its  smell  of  medicines  and  euu-dc-Cologiie 
and  its  strange  brenthlcss  hush,  frightened  he.  just  as  it  had 
done  onco  before.  She  saw  again  the  religious  picture,  the  bleeding 
Christ  and  the  crucifix,  the  high  white;  bed,  the  dim  win<lows 
and  the  little  table  with  the  bottles  and  the  glasses.  It  was  all 
as  it  had  been  before.  Ilcr  terror  grew.  She  felt  as  though  no 
power  could  draf?  her  to  thot  bed.  Something  lurked  there, 
something  horrible  and  unclean,  that  would  spring  upon  her  and 
hold  her  down  with  its  ^laws.  .    .    . 

"Maggie!"  said  the  clear  faint  voice  that  she  knew  so  well. 
Iter  terror  left  her.  She  did  not  notice  Aunt  Elizabeth,  who  was 
seated  close  to  the  bed,  nor  Mr.  Magnus,  nor  the  nurse,  nor  the 
doe'or.    She  went  forward  unafraid. 

*  Doctor,  would  you  mind  .  ,  . "  the  voice  went  on.  "  Three 
minutes  alone  with  my  niece.  .  .  ."  The  doctor,  a  stout  red-faced 
man,  said  something,  the  figures,  oil  siiodowy  in  the  dim  light, 
withdrew. 

Muggie  was  aware  of  nothing  except  that  there  was  something 
of  the  utmost  urgency  that  sho  must  say.  She  came  close  to 
the  bed,  found  a  chair  there,  sat  down  and  bent  forward.  There 
her  aunt  was  lying,  the  black  ho.r  in  a  dark  shadow  across  the 
pillow,  the  face  white  and  sharp,  and  the  eyes  burning  with  a 
fierce  far-seeing  light. 

They  had  the  intense  gaze  of  a  blind  man  to  whom  sight  has 
suddenly  been  given ;  he  cries  "  I  see !  I  si.>e !  "  stretching  out  his 
arms  towards  the  sun,  the  trees,  the  rich  green  fields.  She 
turned  her  head  and  put  both  her  hands  about  Maggie's;  she 
smiled. 

Maggie  said,  "Oh,  Aunt  Anno,  do  you  feel  bad!" 

"  No  dear.  I'm  in  no  pain  at  all.  Now  that  you've  come  I'm 
quite  happy.  It  was  my  one  anxiety."  Her  voice  was  very  faint, 
so  that  Maggie  had  to  lean  forward  to  catch  the  words. 


DEATH  OP  Af.VT  ANNE  377 

"You'll  have  thouRhi  mo  unki..,l  ull  this  time"  ,„;,]   ■«„„„:„ 

r.;/,Mo  il'e  iwl;:-  ""■""' '°  '"■ '"  ■""'•'•  •" ''° """ "  -»■'•' 

wilt"  '"''"  '   "'■•  ''""'"  '^""'  '^""-^  ""''  "•  '"-■'  «ho"iy 

» Jri.o^^i.it'iii: '"'"  '•  ""•••  '^'""■'^""« "-  ^'■ 

eve.1  H  1.1""'^'  ;"'"'  "r"""  ""''  y""  ""'  be  '--'y.     Ho  di. 

ni«ht.  All  t™,j';n\Lv''oc!rwni''r„:;;:  H-;  t'ri.  wm 

ho^^revealedto  you.     Heaven  and  i.,  «,orio'  Vod  ar/Hi^:'' 

^^Sdr^rJ!::^^""'"^^'"^'-^- 
no;'"rd^'„ia:°to  jirwi:k^i;:  n/r  '■^.'^  "'^^^''■ 

r^aS;zt:c^/— -----:5 

ofto,!?™'}-™'.'.  *"!'"  ''■°"''  r";  ^'"'»  ^'""'-  «"<>  ">on  I'll  oome 
t'lJZ^Z  roerto^l^t^""^"  ""'  '  •"«  ->•  ^-'  Anne! 

Sh^  stopped.  The,^  w„s  a  deathly  sliUnosa  in  the  chamber 
.^ofe  'cT.e\thrtt'rn: Va^r  t^JJ  ^ n't^  C"^  /t 
.t  seeded  breathe.    Her  hands  had  dropcd  iZutl^X'lLtr 

suddenly  she  whispered- 

.  ""XMa'stol': : ;  ■,''""'''■  •  •  •  ^^  "^""^  --^  »y  ood. 

Then  very  faintly; 


378 


TflE  CAPTIVES 


"  The  I />rd  ii my  Shiphrrd.  .  .  .  My  ShepHerd.  ...  He  aball 
Ivml  me  lurib  .  .  .  buMc  the  paaturea  .  .  ,  tO}  rod  and  my 
■Uff.  ...  The  Lord  ..." 

She  gave  a  little  sivh  and  hor  head  rolled  to  one  aide. 

MagRie,  with  a  atartlcd  fear,  was  auddenly  consciou*  that  ihe 
waa  alone  in  the  room.  She  went  to  the  door  ami  called  for  the 
do(t«r.  Aa  they  gntlirred  about  the  bed  the  carerna  of  the 
firo  fell  with  the  aharp  aound  of  a  cloaing  door. 

Next  morning  Maggie  wrote  to  Paul  telling  him  that  her 
aunt  waa  dead,  that  the  funeral  would  be  in  two  daya'  time, 
and  that  the  would  atay  in  London  until  that  waa  over.  She 
had  not  very  much  time  juat  then  to  think  of  the  house  and 
th..*  dead  woman  in  it,  becauM  on  the  breakfaat-table  there  waa 
thia  letter  for  ber. 


23  Crouwill  Ro., 
EiNsiNQTON,  March  12,  1012. 
Dear  Mrs.  Trenchakd, 

I  hear  that  you  have  come  to  London  to  viait  your  aunt.  I  have 
been  hoping  for  aome  time  past  to  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
you.  I  am  aure  that  you  will  have  no  wiah  at  all  to  see  me;  at  the 
aame  time  1  io  beg  you  to  give  me  half  an  hour  at  the  above 
address.  Five  o'clock  to-morrow  would  be  a  good  time.  Pleaae  rsk 
for  Miaa  Warlock. 

Believe  me. 

Yours  faitbfull.v. 

Amy  Wablock. 

Maggie  stared  at  the  signature,  then,  with  a  thickly  beating 
heart,  decided  that  of  course  she  would  go.  She  was  not  afraid 
but — Martin's  sister  I  What  would  come  of  it?  The  house  was 
strangely  silent;  Aunt  Elizabeth  sniffed  into  her  handkerchief  a 
good  deal;  Mr.  Magnus,  his  face  strained  with  a  look  of  intense 
fatigue,  went  out  about  some  business.  The  blinds  of  the  house 
wore  down  and  all  the  rooms  were  bathed  in  a  green  twilight. 

About  quarter  past  four  Maggie  went  down  into  the  Strand  t.id 
found  a  cab.  She  gave  the  address  and  off  they  went.  Sitting 
in  the  corner  of  the  cab  she  seemed  to  be  an  entirely  passive 
spectator  of  events  that  were  being  played  before  her.  She 
knew,  remotely,  that  Aunt  Anne's  death  had  deeply  affected  her, 
that  coming  bark  to  the  old  house  had  deeply  affected  h'r,  and 
that  this  interview  with  Amy  Warlock  might  simply  fas  en  on 


DEATH  CP  AVNT  ANNE  879 

I'r.ir'rsr.'S.^  •  ■■-■  -"  ■'^-  •■"«•-• 

ilr«.  TrenchartJ,"  Maggie  .aid. 

bu    ,oon  rc-urned  to  8.y  that  Mi„  Wa,l<H.i<      ould  i^  Z    alT 
J^Ll  15      /  "".  "'""'   l«"8i»8-l>oust.   furniture,   and   on   a 

oould  not  «e  her  very  clearly   i,    ,he  haU-ligl.t    but     he«  w« 
«on,eth.ng  about  her  immobility    ..,d  the"  tXL  „>  h!,  hT»! 
f  aTgr  m'.?o'  -';'  T"  '"  (r"^  white  ^^ftrreliL' 
«.nd"Toir';°her.'  ""•    ''"'""'  '"""^  '»  """  A"'  ^arloolc 

;;  Mr,.  Thuraton "   Jfaggio  btgo.,,  hesitating. 

n,v  ^  "i""^  ""'  '•"o"'    "''^  ^""y  Warlock.  "  tha    I  have  retained 

hL  c^me""'"'""-     Sit  down.  Wt  you!     It  i     ,ood  i'voi^ 

The  Toiee  was  a  little  more  genial  than  it  had  been   in  the 

o^d  day,.    Nevertheless  thia  wa.  still  the  old  Amy  W^k  .t  ff 

masculine,  impenetrable.  "ariocK,  aim. 

•■I  hope  your  aunt  is  better,"  she  said. 

My  aunt  is  dead,"  answered  Maggie 

,."  "^"  ™*-  I'"  '""^  <"  ^^"  ♦hat.    She  waa  a  good  woman  and 
did  many  Itmd  actions  in  her  time  "  woman  and 

the^tlIorLhTVl'''''f'"^  unpleasant  about  that  room,  with 
h^  Lf„  Xf*  :  ""  I'l'smg  gas.  an,l  the  immobile  figure  on 
the  sofa.  Maggie  looked  in  the  direction  of  old  Mrs.  Wariook 
-'You  needn't  mind  mother."  said  Amy  Warlock.  '•  For  some 
Ume  now  she's  been  completely  paralysed.  She  can't  speak  or 
Tl  V,  V^"  '■■''u  '"  ^  downstairs.  ,„  see  the  world  a  bit  I.' 
r'gr^ar'shocirhlr""'  ''"  "'^'  '"  ^"-^  "^^-  ^"•■■"''  ''-">  w- 
It  «a,  sad.     Maggie  remembered  how  fond  she  had  been  of 


her  food.     Like  a  waxen 


image!     Like  a  waxen   image!     The 


whole  room  was  ghoulish  and  unnatural. 
"  I've  asked  you  to  come  and  see  me,  Mrs.  Trenchard," 


con- 


380 


1 

■H  i 

THE  CAPTIVES 


tinued  Miss  Warlock,  "  not  because  we  can  have  any  wish   to 
meet,   I  am  sure.     We  have  never  liked  one  another.     But  I 
have  something  on  my  conscience,  and  I  may  not  have  another 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  you.    I  don't  suppose  you  have  heard 
that  very  shortly  I  intend  to  enter  a  nunnery  at  Boehampton." 
"  And  your  mother  ? "  asked  Maggie. 
"Mother  will  go  into  a  Home,"  answered  Miss  Warlock. 
There  was  a  strange  little  sound  from  the  sofa  like   a   rat 
nibbling  behind  the  wainscot. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  said  Miss  Warlock,  speaking  apparently  with 
some  difficulty,  "  that  I  have  done  you  a  wrong.    Shortly  after  my 
father's  death  my  brother  wrote  to  you  from  Paris." 
"  Wrote  to  me  ? "  repeated  Maggie, 

"  Yes— wrote  to  you  through  me.     I  destroyed  the  letters.     H» 
wrote  then  five  times  in   rather  swift  succession.     I  destroyed 
all  the  letters." 
Maggie  said  nothing. 

"I  destroyed  the  letters,"  continued  Amy  Warlock,  "because  I 
did  not  wish  you  and  my  brother  to  come  together.  I  did  not 
wish  you  to,  simply  out  of  hatred  for  you  both.  I  thought  that 
my  brother  killed  my  father — whom — whom — I  loved.  I  knew  that 
the  one  human  being  whom  Martin  had  ever  loved  beside  his  father 
was  yourself.  Ho  did  love  you,  Mrs.  Trenchard,  more  truly  than 
I  had  believed  it  in  his  power  to  love  any  one.  I  think  you  could 
have  made  him  h  .ppy — therefore  I  did  not  wish  you  to  meet 
again." 
There  was  a  pause.  Maggie  said  at  last : 
"  Were  there  no  other  letters  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Warlock.     "One  this  summer.     For  mort 
than  a  year  there  was  nothing;  then  this  summer,  a  little  one. 
I  destroyed  that  too." 
"  What  did  it  say  ? "  asked  Maggie. 

"  It  said  that  the  woman  to  whom  he  had  been  married  was 
dead.     He  said  that  if  you  didn't  answer  this  letter  he  would 
understand  that  you  would  not  want  to  hear  from  him  any  more. 
He  had  been  very  ill." 
"  Where  did  he  write  that? " 
"  In  Paris." 

"  And  where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    I  have  heard  from  him  no  more." 
Maggie  got  up  and  stood,  her  head  raised  as  though  listeninc 
for  something. 
"  You've  been  very  cruel.  Miss  Warlock."  she  said. 


DEATH  OF  AUNT  ANNE  381 

'■  Perhaps  I  have,"  said  Jliss  Warlnpk     '•  B..*  „■  .    , 

until  you  know  with  wharreasl  T  h,',    •  f"  f"""'  ''"^^'' 

absolve  my  consctn^."     ^°  ""  ""'"  ^"""  forgiveness.     I  had  to 
;;  And  you  have  no  idea  where  he  is  now?  " 
I  have  no  idea     He  may  be  dead  for  all  I  know  " 
wi&itt:?^'     "''  """  •""-  -^   »-   information  you 
"  I  will  give  it  you." 

"This  i,  my  address."   Maggie  gave  her  a  card. 
^^They  said  good-day.  looking  for  one  moment,  face  to  face,  eye 

.tul'bTed^nlVZi^f  'in  T\  ^"  7"  ^,r  ''™  »  '^'^  »•>, 
.f  her  direction,  ting  only  l^anr  ^'^  "'"'^'  "^"''"^  ■">"■'"« 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DEATH    OF    UNCLE    UATUEW 

GRACE  during  the  days  that  Maggie  was  in  London,  regained 
something  of  her  old  tranquillity.  It  was  wonderful  to  her 
to  be  able  to  potter  about  the  house  once  more  mistress  of  all 
that  she  Burreyed  and  protected  from  every  watching  eye.    She  hod 

"  ov'erS^"  "''^  **'''^'*  ^*"''  *  ^°""  °*  """"^  "••*'  '■'^  '^""■"'^ 
She  had  a  habit  of  stopping,  when  she  had  climbed  halfway 
upstairs,  of  suddenly  jerking  her  head  round  to  see  whether  anv 
one  were  looking  at  her.  You  would  have  sworn,  had  you  seen 
her,  that  she  was  deeply  engaged  upon  some  nefarious  and  under- 
hand plot;  yet  It  was  not  so-she  was  simply  going  to  dust  some 
ot  her  hideous  china  treasures  in  her  bedroom. 

Always  after  breakfast  there  was  this  pleasant  ritual.  She 
would  plod  all  round  the  house,  duster  in  hand,  picking  things  up 
giving  them  a  iittle  flick  and  putting  them  back  again,  patting 
treasures  that  she  especially  loved,  sighing  heavily  with  satisfac- 
tion at  the  pleasant  sight  of  all  her  possessions  tranquilly  in  thoir 
right  places.  As  she  looked  around  the  ugly  sitting-room  and  saw 
the  red  glazed  pots  with  the  ferns,  the  faded  football-groups,  the 
worsted  mats  and  the  china  shepherdesses,  a  rich  warm  feeline 
rose  in  her  heart  and  filled  her  whole  body.  It  was  like  a  fine  meal 
to  a  hungry  man:  every  morning  at  half -past  nine  she  was  hungry 
in  this  fashion,  and  every  morning  by  eleven  o'clock  she  was 
satisfied.  Her  thick  body  thus  promenaded  the  house;  she  was 
like  a  stolid  policeman  in  female  attire,  going  his  rounds  to  see 
that  all  was  well.  From  room  to  room  she  went,  pausing  to  pant 
for  breath  on  the  stairs,  stumbling  always  because  of  her  short 
sight  at  the  three  dark  little  steps  just  outside  Paul's  bedroom, 
always  sitting  down  on  her  bed  "to  take  a  breath"  and  to  get  a 
full  gaze  at  the  crucifix  of  bright  yellow  wood,  that  hung  just 
under  her  mother's  picture.  Tramp,  tramp,  tramp  round  the  house 
she  went. 

It  was  incredible  how  deeply  Maggie  had  interfered  with  this 

ritual.    She  had  certainly  not  intended  to  do  so.    After  that  first 

effort  to  change  certain  things  in  the  house  she  had  retired  from 

the  battle,  had  completely  capitulated.    Nevertheless  she  had  inter- 

382 


DEATH  OP  UNCLE  MATHEW 


fered  with  all  Qra™'«  ™  **™ 

(■race  felt  that  she  could  go  noth?  "-T  "'  "■«  '«'"^.  bo  that 
how  8he  resented  it,  and  how  af,^  "i""""'  ">"  '""""ion  Oh 
Maggie  retn^ed  W  that  su^mJr  holiSLT'  ^''"  ^O"'  -d 
felt  Maggie's  strangeness  T„  p,  !  ''^^  ''^''  »*"  'tat  Paul  too 
autumn  eve,^  ""''ement"  aid  gesTuVoTM  ^  "^^^'""'"^  »"'  « 
The  oddity  of  her  appearanee    W  •  "°««'"^  *««  strange 

seemed  to  Grace  to  be  life  I?!  f  '«"°'^''<^  of  eveiything  thlt 
''"ing  attitude  to  "he  Chur'nh  1  ''"^"'  ^alf-mookin^  ha  f-won 
Central  Afriea").  w'^dSe  rf' .tf^^  ^" ''"^^  { heatrfn- 
and  her  liking  for  ths  T^.,.  j  JUaxses  and  the  Pynsenf ^ 
-'--  and  ftil,  odder  srch:s'"a??,l'''^  ^"'-i-.  h-odd 
^he_^a.mosphere    that    3epar^aterV^rl"^4''^^,/--e<^ 

"'9%rwtr^--  -'--  5:Liife:s.ti^"- e; 

">'«ht,  at  any  time,  fly  through  Jh^  Potion-dealing  wit.h    who 
surely  as  any  mediaeval  ^l/'^h^^"  "ight-sky  o„  a  broom-stick  a^ 

=rn°rr=t^--t^c 

^^^^^r^Z-iT-    --»-sheeould 

?^"-nstr]::^rr^?^-'»^^ 

her  own  safety,  partly  lore  Ind  i    i    "°^*''°'  ""  Partly  feir  for 


384 


THE  CAPTIVES 


had  become  thoroughly  accustomed  to  ita  ways  and  was  assured 
that  it  would  do  her  uo  harm. 

She  liked  the  shops  and  the  woods,  the  sand  and  the  sea.  Above 
all,  she  adored  the  Church.  During  a  large  part  of  every  day  she 
was  there,  pottering  about,  talking  to  the  caretaker,  poking  her 
nose  into  the  hymn-books  to  see  whether  the  choir-boys  had  drawn 
pictures  in  them,  rubbing  the  brasses,  making  tidy  the  vestry. 
The  house  too  she  loved,  and  the  garden  and  the  bottles  on  the 
wall.  She  might  have  known  that  she  was  not  popular  in  the 
place,  she  cannot  have  failed  to  realise  that  she  had  no  woman 
friend  and  that  she  was  seldom  invited  to  dinner.  This  did  not 
matter  to  her.  Her  affections — and  they  were  very  real  and 
genuine — were  all  for  her  brother.  Had  she  Paul  she  wanted  no 
one  else.    That  was  enough. 

And  now  it  might  be  that  they  would  have  to  leave  the  place. 
Already  the  talk  about  Maggie  was  intolerable.  Grace  heard  it 
on  every  side.  After  Mathew  Cardinal's  visit  the  talk  rose  to  a 
shriek.  Grace  knew  that  those  sudden  silences  on  her  entrance 
into  the  room  meant  lively  and  excited  discussion.  "  How  ter- 
rible for  the  poor  rectqr ! "  "  Such  an  odd  girl — taken  out  of  the 
slums."  "Yes,  quite  drunk.  He  knocked  Mrs.  Maxse  down." 
"  Oh  I  assure  you  that  she  went  to  see  Caroline  Purdie  the  very 
day  after.    She  did  indeed.    .    .   ." 

Yes.  Grace  knew  all  about  it.  Unless  things  changed  Paul 
would  have  to  go.    His  life  was  ruined  by  this  girl. 

Nevertheless  for  a  whole  happy  week  the  world  seemed  to  sink 
back  into  its  old  accustomed  apathy.  The  very  house  seemed  to 
take  on  its  old  atmosphere.  Paul  came  out  of  his  study  and  went 
about  paying  calls.  That  hour,  from  six  to  seven,  when  he  was  at 
home  to  his  parishioners  seemed  once  again  to  be  crowded  with 
anxious  old  women  and  men  out  of  work  and  girls  in  trouble.  He 
took  Grace  with  him  on  his  rounds.  Every  one  was  very  friendly. 
Grace  was  able  to  reassume  some  of  her  old  importance. 

Her  old  flow  of  conversation — checked  recently  by  the  sense  of 
Maggie's  strangeness — returned  to  her.  In  the  morning  she  would 
stand  by  her  brother's  study-table,  duster  in  hand,  and  pour  out 
her  heart. 

"  You  know,  Paul,  it's  all  very  well,  you  moy  say  what  you  like, 
but  if  Mrs.  Maxse  thinks  she's  going  to  have  the  whole  of  that 
second  pew  she's  mistaken.  It's  only  for  a  week  or  two  that  she's 
got  the  Broadbents  staying  with  her,  and  I  know  what  she's  after. 
Just  fancy!  What  she  wants  is  to  put  the  Broadbents  in  that 
second  seat  the  two  Sundays  they're  here  and  then  stick  to  it  after 


DEATH  OP  UNCLE  MATHEW  385 

KboTu/ WhiTT  "■""  ^'"'^"'t  -d  Mi«^  Hopwoo.1  will 
leel  about  itl  What  i  mean  is  that  they've  had  that  scat  for 
nearly  e,ght  years  and  now  to  be  t.n.ed  out!  But  I  aLure  you' 
Paul    from  what   Linda   Max»e  said   to   me  yesterday   I   beS 

nL'^'^f"}^"'  ^  '^V''^"'^-  S''«  *'■*»  Mi^^  Beats  and  S 
Hopwood  w,ll  get  used  to  sitting  somewhere  else  after  two  Sun! 
days.  I  m  sure  they  won't  mind-poor  old  things.'  she  said  only 
yesterday  'Poor  old  things.'  Just  faney!  Why  Mary  Beats 
.s  very  lit.^  older  than  L    You'll  have  to  pu't  your  footl:™  Sou 

of  thtng.       .'    "'  "  """'•  ^  "'""^^  ^*''^-'""^  '^'»  "  i-'   "ekind 

hef'dtTi^^'T'  ""•"°  V.^  P«"'  '»'"^d  up  from  his  desk  at 
her,  d  ggmg  h,8  fingers  into  his  white  hair,  smiling  at  her  in  just 

came!      ™"*''^°"'''  ""^  ^^o*  ^^  ^^^  *»  have  before  Maggfe 

■Iwi'v  T'"^"^-  ^'  ''"  "'''  '"''''*  "*  *«"'''>»  to  herself.  This  had 
always  been  an  .mmense  relief  to  her-it  had  helped  her  to  feel 

ITlTu  V '"'"  tl  ^^  ?"  '•""  ^'"«^-  "-  overhearing  he 
susniciou,  n'"*  "'  I'V^''  ^"^  '^''^'''^  ^"  ""J  ""^de  her 
suspicious.     Now  as  she  began  to  mount  the  stairs  she  would 

Sa~s*"A'r  all  1'  "■^'l'  '■\'"'""  ""  *■="  -^-"^  '"  "  '» 
Sll  fhlL  r '".«"'  ''»  5V'''''"  that  way,  and  she'll  be  able  to 
tell  the  boy  to  bring  the  thing .  back.    She  needn't  wait.    All  the 

fn,fL  I  u^  ''"*  *T  ""*  "  two-thirty  she'll  never  be  baek  by 
^ur-unless  she  went  by  Smith's  lane  of  course-she  might  do 

•  L'j"  V"'''  ^^"^  ^^^^  ^t»'"  "'■e  a  trial  ...  yes  she 
"gi^st  ?haf  •.  ".""!..*''"  '''''  ""'^  '^  ""  '"'^'  ""•'««''"     l'' 

Her  murmur  was  a  cheerful  monotonous  sound  accompanying 
her  as  she  went.  She  would  stop  and  rub  the  side  of  her  nose  with 
her  thumb,  considering  In  the  house,  when  there  was  no  fear  of 
callers,  she  wore  large  loose  slippers  that  tap-tapped  as  she  went 
In  the  evemngs  she  sat  m  Paul's  study  all  amongst  the  Cor^.;?,. 
The  Temple  Bars,  and  The  Bible  Concordances.  They  were  very 
cosy  and  happy,  and  she  talked  incessantly.  For  some  reason  she 
did  not  dare  to  ask  him  whether  he  were  not  happier  now  that 
Maggie  was  away  She  did  not  d..-e.  There  was  not  the  com- 
plete confidence  that  there  had  been.     Paul  was  strange  a  littk, 

theTthtr^^".^^" '''"'."'"""■"•  •  ■  •  There  w./something 
there  that  Grace  did  not  understand.    So  she  said  nothing,  but  she 


386  THE  CAPTIVES 

tried  tu  convey  to  bim,  in  the  peculiar  warmth  of  her  good-night 
Icias,  what  she  felt. 

Then  Maggie  returned.  She  came  back  in  her  black  clothes  and 
with  iier  pale  lace.  Uer  aunt  bad  died.  She  was  more  alone  even 
than  before.  Kh^  was  very  quiet,  and  agreed  to  everything  that 
Grace  aaid.  Nevertheless,  although  she  agreed,  she  was  more 
antagonistic  than  she  had  been.  She  had  now  something  that 
intensely  preoccupied  her.  Qrace  could  see  that  she  was  slways 
tliinking  about  something  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  Skeaton 
or  Paul  or  the  house.  She  was  more  absent-minded  than  ever, 
forgot  everything,  liked  best  to  sit  in  her  bedroom  all  alone. 

*' Oh.  she's  mad!"  said  Grace.  "She's  really  mad!  Just  fancy 
if  she  should  go  right  off  her  head !  "  Grace  was  now  so  desperately 
frightened  that  she  lay  awake  at  night,  sweating,  listening  to  every 
sound.  "  If  she  should  come  and  murder  me  oi>e  night."  she 
thouglit.  Another  thought  she  had  was;  "It's  just  a<:  though  she 
sees  some  one  all  the  time  who  isn't  there." 

Then  came  13th  March,  that  dreadful  day  that  would  be  never 
forgotten  by  Grace  so  long  as  she  lived.  During  the  whole  of  the 
past  week  Skeaton  had  been  delivered  up  to  a  tempest  of  wind  and 
rain.  The  High  Street,  emptied  of  human  beings,  had  glittered 
and  swayed  under  the  sweeping  storm.  The  Skeaton  sea,  pos- 
sessing suddenly  a  life  of  its  own,  had  stormed  upon  the  Skeaton 
promenade,  and  worried  and  lashed  and  soaked  that  hideous  struc- 
ture to  within  an  inch  of  its  unnatural  life.  Behind  the  town 
the  woods  had  swayed  and  creaked,  funeral  black  against  the  grey 
thick  sky.  Across  the  folds  the  rain  fell  in  slanting  sheets  with 
the  sibilant  hiss  of  relentless  power  and  resolve. 

After  luncheon,  on  this  day  the  13th,  Maggie  disappeared  into 
the  upper  part  of  the  house  and  Grace  settled  down  on  the  draw- 
ing-room sofa  to  a  nice  little  nap.  She  fell  asleep  to  the  comfort- 
ing patter  of  rain  upon  the  windows  and  the  howling  of  the  storm 
down  the  chimney.    She  dreamt,  as  she  often  did,  about  food. 

She  was  awakened,  with  a  sv  'den  start,  by  a  sense  of  appre- 
hension. This  happened  to  her  now  so  often  that  there  was 
nothing  strange  in  it,  but  she  jumped  up,  with  beating  heart,  from 
the  sofa,  crying  out :  "  What's  happened  ?     What's  the  matter  i  " 

She  realised  that  the  room  had  grown  darker  since  she  fell 
asleep,  and  although  it  was  early  still  there  was  a  sort  of  grey 
twilight  that  stood  out  against  a  deeper  dusk  in  the  garden 
beyond. 

"  What  is  it? "  she  said  again,  and  tl-en  saw  that  Jenny,  the 
maid,  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 


DEATH  OP  UNCLE  MATHEW 


387 


"Well,  Jenny?"  she  asked,  trying  to  recover  some  of  her  dig- 
nity. 

"It's  a  man,  mum,"  said  the  little  girl.  (Qracc  had  got  her 
cheap  from  an  orphanage.)  ••  A  gentleman,  mum.  Hu'a  asking  for 
Mrs.  Trenchard.    'E  give  me 'is  card.    Oh,  mum, 'e  w  wet  too  I  " 

She  had  scarcely  finished,  and  Grace  had  only  taken  the  card, 
when  Mathew  Cardinal  came  forward  out  of  the  hall.  He  was  u 
dim  and  mysterious  figure  in  that  half-light,  but  Grace  could  see 
that  he  was  more  battered  and  shabby  than  on  his  last  visit.  His 
"oat  collar  was  turned  up.  She  could  only  veiy  vaguely  see  h'n 
face,  but  it  seemed  to  her  strangely  white  when  before  it  had  been 
80  grossly  red. 

She  was  struck  by  his  immobility.  Partly  perhaps  because  she 
had  been  roused  from  sleep  and  was  yet  neither  clear  nor  resolved, 
he  seemed  to  her  some  nightmare  figure.  This  was  the  man  who 
was  responsible  for  all  the  trouble  and  scandal,  this  was  the  man 
who  threatened  to  drive  Paul  and  herself  from  her  home,  this  was 
the  blackguard  who  had  not  known  how  to  behave  in  decent  society. 
But  behind  that  was  the  terror  of  the  mystery  that  enveloped 
Maggie— the  girl's  uncle,  the  man  who  had  shared  in  her  strange 
earlier  life,  and  made  her  what  she  now  was.  As  he  stood  there, 
motionless,  silent,  the  water  dropping  from  his  clothes,  Grace  was 
as  frightened  as  though  he  had  already  offered  her  personal  violence 
or  held  a  pistol  to  her  head. 

"  What  do  you  want? "  she  asked  hoarsely,  stepping  back  to  the 
sofa,    .fenny  had  left  the  room. 

"I  want  to  see  my  niece,"  he  answered,  still  without  moving. 
She  recognised  then,  strangely,  in  his  voice  a  terror  akin  to  her 
own.  He  also  was  afraid  of  something.  Of  what?  It  was  not 
that  his  voice  shook  or  that  his  tongue  faltered.  But  he  was 
terrified.  ...  She  could  feel  his  heart  thumping  behind  the 
words. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "  You  can't  see  her.  She's  upstairs  rest- 
ing." 

She  did  not  know  whence  the  resolution  had  come  that  he  was 
not,  in  any  case,  to  see  Maggie;  she  did  not  know  what  catas- 
trophe she  anticipated  from  their  meeting.  She  was  simply  re- 
solved, as  though  acting  under  the  blind  orders  of  some  other 
power,  that  Maggie  should  not  see  him  and  that  he  should  leave  the 
house  at  onw. 

"  I  must  see  her,"  he  said,  and  the  desperate  urgency  in  his 
voice  would  have  touched  any  one  less  terrified  than  Grace.  "  I 
must." 


388  THE  CAPTIVES 

"  I'm  «orry,"  abe  aniwcred.  The  fpar  in  tiia  voice  teemed  now 
to  give  her  superiority  over  him.    "  lis  imp<M8ible." 

"  Oh  no,"  be  said.  "  If  she's  here  it  can't  be  impossible.  She'd 
want  to  see  me.  We  have  things  ...  I  must.  .  .  .  You 
don't  understand,  Miss  Trenchard." 

"  I  only  know,"  said  Grace,  "  that  after  what  occurred  on  your 
last  visit  here,  Mr.  Cardinal,  Maggie  said  that  she  would  never  see 
you  again." 
"  That'B  a  lie  I  "  he  said. 

She  made  no  answer.    Then  at  last  he  said  pitifully : 
"  Hhe  didn't  really  say  that,  did  she!" 

"  Yes.  I'm  sorry.  But  you  can  understand  after  what  oc- 
curred  " 

He  came  suddenly  forward,  the  water  trickling  from  him  on  to 
the  carpet. 
"You  swear  that's  true?" 

She  could  see  now  his  face  and  realised  that  he  was,  indeed, 
desperate — breathless  as  though  he  had  been  running  from  some 
one. 
"  Yes,  that's  true,"  she  answered. 
"  Maggie  said  that." 
"  Those  were  Maggie's  words." 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  done.  ..."  He  turned  away  from  her  as 
though  iii'r  announcement  had  settled  something  about  which  he 
had  been  in  doubt.  "  It  isn't  like  Maggie.  .  .  .  But  still  she 
hasn't  written.  She  saw  I  was  hard  up  last  time.  All  I  deserve. 
...  All  I  deserve."  He  turned  round  to  Grace  again.  "  I 
can't  quite  believe  it.  Miss  Trenchard.  It  doesn't  sound  like  Mag- 
gie, but  perhaps  you've  influenced  her.  .  .  .  That's  likely.  If 
she  should  change  her  mind  I'm  at  the  '  Sea  Dog.'  Not  much  of  a 
place.  Quiet  though.  Yes,  well.  You  might  tell  her  not  to 
bother.  I'm  finished,  you  see,  Miss  Trenchard,  Yes,  down.  You'll 
be  glad  to  bear  it,  I've  no  doubt.  Well,  I  mustn't  stay  talking. 
I  wish  Maggie  were  happier  though.  She  isn't  happy,  is  she ! " 
The  question  was  so  abrupt  that  Grace  was  startled. 
"  I  should  hope  so — Mr.  Cardinal,"  she  said. 
"  Oh,  no,  she  isn't.  I  know.  Always  this  religion  she  gets  into. 
If  it  isn't  one  sort  it's  another.  But  she's  a  good  girl.  Don't  you 
forget  that.    Well,  I  must  be  going.    Good  day.    Good  day." 

He  was  actually  gone,  leaving  a  little  pool  of  water  on  the  carpet 
behind  him.  Grace  sat  down  on  the  sofa  again.  What  a  horrible 
man!  What  a  horrible  man!  But  she  had  been  wrong  to  say  that 
about  ilaggie.    Yes,  she  had.    But  he  had  taken  her  by  surprise. 


DEATH  OF  UNCLE  MATHEW 


389 


Ohdrar!  How  her  heart  was  beating!  And  how  strange  he  had 
looked.  She  could  scarcely  breathe.  She  sat  there  lost  in  stupefied 
wonder.  At  last  tea  ciime  in,  ond  with  it  Paul  and  Maggie.  Oraee 
felt  ashamed  and  frightened.  Why  was  Maggie  always  making 
her  do  things  of  which  sho  was  ashamed  i  It  was  as  though  tlii- 
girl  had  power  over  her  .  .  .  absurd,  of  course.  Nevertheless, 
as  she  poured  out  the  tea  she  was  haunted  by  that  man's  eyes.  Yes, 
he  had  undoubtedly  been  very  unhappy.    Yes,  in  great  trouble. 

Maggie  sat  quietly  there.  Paul  was  preoccupied  with  a  letter 
that  must,  he  had  decided,  be  v  ritten  to  The  Church  Times.  It 
was  a  letter  about  Churchwarden ,  and  their  growing  independence. 
He  finished  his  tea  hurriedly,  but  before  he  left  the  room,  looking 
at  Maggie  rather  wistfully,  suddenly  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 
She  glanced  up  at  him,  smiling. 
"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Grace?"  she  asked. 
Then,  as  it  were  without  her  own  desire,  Grace  was  compelled 

to  speak.    "  There's  something  I  ought  to  tell  you "  she  began 

awkwardly.  Then  she  stopped.  Maggie  was  tvoubled.  She  knew 
that  when  Grace  was  uncomfortable  every  one  else  was  uncom- 
fortable. 
'I  What  have  I  done  now!"  she  said  rather  sharply. 
•'It's  nothing  that  you've  done,"  answered  Grace  also  sharpl.v. 
"  I  m  sure  I  don't  know,  Maggie,  why  you  should  always  think  that 
1  m  scolding  you.  No.  I  don't  indeed.  It's  nothing  that  you've 
done.    Your  uncle  came  to  sec  you  this  afternoon." 

"  Uncle  Mathew! "  Maggie  jumped  up  from  her  chair.    "  Came 
here ( " 
"  Yes." 

"  And  wanted  to  see  me?    Oh,  Grace,  why  didn't  you  tell  me? " 
"  I  have  told  you.    .   .   .    There's  nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about. 
Maggie.     Really,  you  needn't  look  like  that— as  though  I  were 
always  doing  something  wrong.    I  only  did  it  for  your  sake." 

"For  my  sake?    But  why?    I  wanted  to  see  him,    I  was  trying 
to  see  him  in  London.    Oh.  Grace,  what  did  he  say  ? " 

"What  did  he  say?    Well,  fancy!    As  though  I  could  remem- 
ber.   He  said  he'd  come  to  see  you,  and  when  I  said  he  couldn't, 
he  went  away  again." 
"Said  he  couldn't?     But  why  couldn't  he?" 
"  Really,  Maggie,  your  tone  is  extraordinary.    Fancy  what  Paul 
would  say  if  he  heard  you.    He  wov :  In't  like  it,  I'm  sure.    I  said 
that  after  the  way  he'd  behaved  last  time  he  came  here  you  didn't 
want  to  see  him  again." 
"Yon  said  that?    Oh,  Grace!    How  did  you  dare  1 " 


390 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"Xow,  Uaggie,  don't  you  look  like  tlut.  I'n  done  nothins, 
I'm  aure." 

"  Did  j'ou  aay  that  I'd  Mid  that  I  didn't  want  to  aee  him  again  t " 

Graiv  shrank  back  behind  the  tea-thinfta, 

"  Yea,  I  did.    .    .    .    Maggie,  you  frighten  me." 

"  I  hope  I  do.  ...  You're  wicked,  you're  wicked.  Yea,  you 
are.    Where  ia  he  now  I " 

"  He's  at  the  '  Sea  Dog.'  That  dirty  public  bouse  on  the  aea- 
front— near  Tunstalls Where  arc  you  going)" 

•'  I'm  going  to  him  of  course."  Maggie  turned  and  looked  at 
Orace.  Grace  was  fascinated  as  a  rabbit  ia  by  a  anakc.  The  two 
women  stared  at  one  another. 

•'  How  strange  you  are,  Grace."  Maggie  aaid.  "  You  seem  to  like 
to  be  cruel ! "  Then  she  went  out.  When  the  door  was  closed 
Grace  found  "  that  she  was  all  in  a  perapiration."  Her  band 
trembled  so  that  when  she  tried  to  pour  herself  another  cup  of 
tea— just  to  fortify  herself— she  poured  it  into  the  saucer.  j\nd 
the  tea  was  cold — no  use  now. 

When  she  rose  at  last  to  go  in  and  seek  consolation  from  Paul 
her  knees  were  trembling  so  that  she  staggered  across  the  floor. 
This  couldn't  go  on.  No,  it  could  not.  To  be  frinhtcned  in  one's 
own  house!  Absurd.  .  .  .  Really  the  girl  had  looked  terrible. 
.  .  .  Murder.  .  .  .  That's  what  it  had  looked  Mke.  Some- 
thing  must  be  done. 

Murmuring  aloud  to  herself  again  and  again  "  Something  must 
be  done  "  as  she  cro.^^  the  hall,  she  walked  slowly,  her  hand  to 
her  bean,  ponderously,  as  though  she  were  walking  in  the  dark. 
Then,  as  soon  as  she  bad  opened  the  study  door  she  began,  before 
she  could  see  her  brother:  "  Oh,  Paul,  I'm  so  frightened.  It's 
Maggie.     She's  very  angry.     Fancy  what  she  said." 

Moggie  meanwhile  had  gone  straight  up  to  her  bedroom  and 
found  her  black  hat  and  her  waterproof.  Her  one  thought  now  was 
lest  he  should  have  caught  the  five  o'clock  train  and  gone  back  to 
London.  Oh!  how  hurt  he  would  be  with  her,  how  terribly  hurt! 
The  thought  of  the  pain  and  loneliness  that  he  would  feel  dis- 
tressed her  so  bitterly  that  she  could  scarcely  put  on  her  hat,  she 
was  so  eager  to  run  and  find  him.  She  felt,  at  the  thought  of  his 
fruitless  journey  through  the  rain,  the  tenderest  affection  for  him, 
maternal  and  loving,  so  that  she  wanted  to  have  him  with  her  at 
once  and  to  see  him  in  warm  clothes  beside  the  fire,  drinking 
whisky  if  he  likjd,  and  she  would  give  him  all  the  money  she  pos- 
sessed. 
She  had  stitl  touched  very  little  of  her  own  three  hundred 


DEATH  OP  UNCLE  MATHEW 


391 


poundi.  He  thoultl  hare  ■■  much  of  that  an  he  liked.  The  death 
of  Aunt  Anno  hail  shown  her  liiiw  few  peonio  in  the  world  there 
were  for  her  to  lore.  After  all.  the  aunta  and  Uncle  Mathcw  had 
nieded  her  aa  no  one  el»e  had  done.  She  made  little  plans;  she 
would,  perhaps,  jto  back  with  him  to  London  for  u  little  time. 
There  was,  after  all,  no  reason  why  she  should  remain  in  this  hor- 
rible place  for  ever.  And  Paul  now  aeemed  not  to  care  whether 
•he  went  or  atnycd. 

She  ran  out  uno  the  wind  and  tlie  rain.  She  was  surprised  by 
the  force  ai  lury  o.'  it.  It  would  take  time  and  strength  to  battle 
down  the  High  Street.  Poor  Uncle  Mathewl  To  walk  all  the 
way  in  the  rain  and  then  to  be  told  that  she  would  not  see  him! 
She  could  imagine  him  turning  away  down  the  drire,  bitterly  dis- 
appointed.   .   .   . 

Probably  he  had  come  to  borrow  money,  and  she  had  promised 
that  she  would  not  fail  him.  When  she  reached  the  High  Street 
lUe  waa  soaked.  She  felt  the  water  dripping  down  her  neck  and 
in  her  boots.  At  the  comer  of  the  High  Street  by  the  bookseller's 
she  was  forced  to  pause,  so  fiercely  did  the  wind  beat  up  from  the 
Otterson  Road,  that  runs  openly  to  the  sea.  Maggie  had  not  even 
in  Olebeshire  known  so  furious  a  day  and  hour  when  the  winds 
tossed  and  raged  but  never  broke  into  real  storm.  It  waa  the 
more  surprising.  She  had  to  pause  for  a  moment  to  remember 
where  Tumstall's  the  butcher  was,  then,  suddenly  recalling  it,  she 
turned  off  the  High  Street  and  found  her  way  to  the  mean  streets 
that  ran  behind  the  Promenade.  Still  she  met  no  one.  It  might 
have  been  a  town  abandoned  by  all  human  life  and  given  over  to 
the  wind  and  rain  and  the  approaching  absorption  of  the  sea.  It 
was  now  dark  and  the  lamp  at  the  end  of  the  street  blew  gustily 
and  with  an  uncertain  flare. 

Maggie  found  Tumstall's.  its  shop  lit  and  Mr.  Turastall  himself, 
stout  and  red-faced,  behind  bis  bloody  counter.  She  went  in  and 
asked  him  where  "  The  Sea  Dog  "  might  be.  He  eitplained  to  her 
that  it  was  close  at  hand,  on  the  right,  looking  over  the  Promenade. 
She  found  it  at  lost  because  it  had  an  old-fashioned  creaking 
wooden  sign  with  a  blue  sailor  painted  on  it.  Timidly  she  stepped 
into  the  dark  uneven  passage.  To  the  right  of  her  she  could  see 
a  deserted  room  with  wooden  trestles  and  a  table.  The  bar  must 
be  near  because  she  could  hear  voices  and  the  clinking  of  glasses, 
but,  in  spite  of  those  sounds  the  house  seemed  very  dead.  Through 
the  walls  and  rooms  she  could  hear  the  pounding  beat  of  the  sea. 
She  walked  to  the  end  of  the  passage  and  there  founH  in  old  wrin- 
kled man  in  riding  breeches  and  a  brightly-colou  '.■  shirt 


893 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"  Can  you  tell  ma  where  n  gentleman,  Mr.  Cirdinil,  it  ituinsl " 
■he  ■akcd. 

He  w«.  obviously  re.y  <le«f ;  «hc  hod  to  ihout.  She  repeited  her 
quenlion,  ailrlinfr.    "  He  camo  from  Lnndnn  to-day." 

A  stout  middle-aged  woman  appeared.  "  What  ia  it  1 "  ihc  atked. 
"  The  old  mon'a  atone  deaf.    He  can't  hear  at  eU." 

"  I  WU8  wondering,"  said  Maggie,  "  whether  you  could  tell  me 
where  I  could  find  a  Mr.  Cardinal.  He  came  down  from  London 
to-day  and  ia  ataying  here." 

"r  rdinal    .   .   .    CardinuH"    The  w  man  thought,  acratching 
her       id.    "Was  it  Caldwell  you  meant?" 
"  -\       said  Maggie.    "  Cardinal." 

"  I'll  Ko  and  see."  The  woman  disappeared,  whilat  the  old  man 
brushed  past  Maggie  aa  tlough  she  were  a  piece  of  furniture;  he 
departed  on  some  secret  purpose  of  his  own. 

"What  a  horrible  place!"  thought  Maggie.  "Uncle  must  be 
in  a  bad  way  if  he  comes  here.  1  never  ahould  sleep  for  the  noise 
of  the  sea." 

The  woman  returned.  "Yes.  'E's  here.  No.  B.  Come  thia 
afternoon.    Cp  the  stairs  and  second  door  on  the  right." 

The  stairs  to  which  she  pointed  offered  a  gulf  of  darkness.  The 
woman  was  gone.  The  noises  from  the  bar  had  ceaaed.  The  only 
sound  in  the  place  was  the  thundering  of  the  sea,  roaring,  aa  it 
seemed,  at  the  very  foot  oi  the  house. 

Maggie  climbed  the  stairs.  Half-way  up  she  was  compelled  to 
pause.  The  darkness  blinded  her;  she  had  lost  the  reflection  from 
the  lamp  below  and,  above  her,  there  was  no  light  at  all.  She  ad- 
vanced slowly,  step  by  step,  feeling  her  way  with  a  band  on  the 
rickety  bannisters.  At  the  top  jf  the  stair  there  was  a  gleam  of 
I'ght  and,  turning  to  the  right,  she  knocked  on  the  second  door. 
There  was  no  answer  and  she  knocked  again.  Listening,  the  noise 
of  the  sea  was  now  so  violent  that  she  fancied  that  she  might  not 
have  heard  the  answer  so  she  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  and 
pushed  it  open.  She  was  met  then  by  a  gale  of  wind,  a  rush  of 
the  sea  that  seemed  as  imminent  as  though  she  were  on  the  shore 
itself  and  a  dim  grey  light  that  revealed  nothing  in  the  room  to 
her  but  only  shapes  and  shadows. 

She  knew  at  once  that  the  windows  must  be  wide  open;  she 
could  hear  some  papers  rustling  and  something  on  the  wall  tapped 
monotonously. 

"Uncle  JIathew!"  she  whispered,  and  then   she  called  more 
loudly. 
"Uncle  Mathew!  Uncle  Mathew!"' 


DEATH  OP  UNCLE  MATHEW  393 

There  wu  no  uiawer  ond  luddeniy  a  ^Iraniip,  quite  unmionina 
terror  caught  her  by  tho  throut.  It  tvu<  all  that  the  could  do 
not  to  cry  out  and  run  down  to  the  giia-lit  pmege.  She  held 
berwlf  there  by  theer  l.,rci>;  thu  nmcll  of  the  wa  wai  now  rery 
•trong;  there  wa«  a  tang  of  rotten  leaweed  in  it. 

An  >ho  remained  there  ahc  could  tec  more  clearly,  but  it  wemed 
that  the  room  was  full  of  »omc  dln>  obscuring  mint.    She  moved 
forward  into  the  room,  knoclted  her  knee  againit  a  table,  and  then 
as  the  panic  gained  upon  her  called  more  loudly,  "  Uncle    , 
Uncle.    Are  you  inf    Where  arc  you(    U'»  I.  Moggie." 
.  I'i  ?'*."*"    •••<''  course  he  isn't  here,"  aho  said  to  herself. 

He  a  downstairs."  And  yet.  etrangely.  something  seemed  to  per- 
suade her  that  he  was  there;  it  was  as  though  ho  were  maliciously 
hiding  from  her  to  tease  her. 

Feeling  her  way  cautiously,  her  hands  before  ue-  face,  she 
moved  forward  to  close  the  windows,  thinking  that  she  must  shut 
out  thet  abominable  sound  of  tho  sea  and  the  stale  stink  of  tho 
seaweed.  She  was  suddenly  caught  by  a  sweep  of  rain  that  wetted 
her  hair  and  fact  and  neck.  .She  started  beck  and  touched  a 
piece  of  damp  cloth.  She  turned,  and  there,  very  close  to  her  but 
above  her  and  staring  over  her  head,  was  Uncle  Mathew'a  face  It 
was  so  close  to  her  that  she  could  have  touched  it  by  putting  up 
her  hand.  It  was  white-grey  and  she  would  not  have  seen  it  at 
all  had  she  not  been  very  near  to  it. 

She  realised  nothing,  but  she  felt  that  her  knees  were  trembVng 
and  that  she  would  fall  if  she  did  not  steady  herself.  She  put  ,ut 
her  hand  and  clutched  damp  heavy  thick  cloth,  j'oth  that  en- 
wrapped as  it  seemed  some  weighty  substance  like  stone  or  brick. 

She  passed  her  hand  upwards  and  suddenly  the  damp  cloth  gave 
way  beneath  her  finpiers.  sinking  inwards  against  something  soft 
and  flabby.  She  sprang  away.  She  stood  for  one  shuddering 
moment,  then  she  screamed  again  and  again,  shrieking  and  run- 
ning, as  it  were  for  h^r  life,  out  of  the  room,  down  the  passage. 

She  could  not  6nd  the  staircase.  Oh!  she  could  not  find  the 
staircase!  She  stood  there,  leaning  against  the  damp  wall,  cryinir- 
"Oh  help!    Help!     Quickly!"  h         •     J-    K- 

There  were  steps  and  voices,  then  the  woman  whom  she  had  seen 
before  appeared  at  the  turn  of  the  stair  holding  a  lamp. 

"What  is  it?"  che  asked,  raising  the  light  high.  Maggie  did 
not  answer,  only  leaning  there  and  staring  down. 

"  You'd  better  come.  Bill."  the  woman  said.  "  There's  something 
wrong  up  'ere." 

The  woman  came  up  the  stairs  followed  by  two  men;  they  moved 


394 


THE  CAPTIVES 


cautiously  as  though  they  expected  to  find  Bometbiog  terrible 
round  the  next  corner. 

**  What  is  it  J "  said  the  woman  again  when  she  came  up  to 
Maggie.  But  Maggie  made  no  answer.  They  pushed  past  her 
and  went  into  the  room.  Maggie  followed  them.  She  saw  the 
room  obscured  by  mist;  she  heard  some  whispering  and  fumbling, 
then  a  match  was  struck;  there  was  a  bead-like  flare  followed 
suddenly  by  the  flaming  of  a  candle.  In  the  quick  light  the  room 
was  bright.  Maggie  saw  her  uncle  hanging  from  some  projection 
in  the  rough  ceiling.  A  chair  was  overturned  at  his  feet.  His 
body  was  like  a  bag  of  old  clothes,  his  big  boots  turning  inwards 
towards  one  another.  His  face  was  a  dull  grey  and  seemed  cut 
off  from  the  rest  of  his  body  by  the  thick  blue  muffler  that  en- 
circled his  neck.  He  was  grinning  at  her;  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
protruded  at  her  between  his  teeth.  She  noticed  his  hands  that 
hung  heavily  like  dead  fish. 

After  that  she  knew  no  more  save  that  the  sea  seemed  to  rush 
in  a  great  flood,  with  a  sudden  vindictive  roar,  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SOCL  OP  PAUL 

WIS  "  •'"""^  "'"^  ""  ""PP^ned  to  Paul  before, 
mg  30  horrible.  .  ^  KnocK  on  the  door.    Noth- 

.He  dark  roon..  Maggie  tu  Jlin^^a^eStT  the^  IZZ'Zu. 


396 


THE  CAPTIVES 


the  crowd.  ...  He  saw  it  all,  hour  after  hour.  He  was  not  an 
imaginative  man,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  actually  been 
present  at  this  scene.  He  had  to  attend  the  inquest.  That  hod 
been  horrible.  With  all  eyes  upon  him  he  stood  up  and  answered 
their  detestable  questions.  He  had  trembled  before  ihose  eyes. 
Suddenly  ihe  self-contidenee  of  all  his  life  had  left  him.  He  had 
stammpred  in  his  replies,  his  hands  had  trembled  and  he  had  been 
forced  to  press  them  close  to  his  sides.  He  had  given  his  answers 
as  though  he  were  a  guilty  man. 

He  came  then  slowly,  in  the  silence  of  his  study,  to  the  con- 
sideration of  Grace  and  Maggie.  This  would  kill  Grace.  She  had 
altered,  in  a  few  days,  amazingly;  she  would  meet  nobody,  but 
shut  herself  into  her  bedroom.  She  would  not  see  the  servants. 
She  looked  at  Paul  ns  though  she,  like  the  r.-st  of  the  world,  blamed 
him.  Paul  loved  Grace.  He  had  not  known  before  how  much. 
They  had  been  together  all  their  lives  and  he  had  taken  her  pro- 
tection and  care  of  him  too  much  for  granted.  How  good  she  had 
been  to  him  and  for  how  many  years!  When  they  were  happy  it 
seemed  natural  that  she  should  look  after  him,  but  now,  in  the 
middle  of  this  scandal  he  saw  that  it  should  have  been  he  who 
looked  after  her.  He  had  not  looked  after  her.  Of  course,  now 
they  would  have  to  leave  Skeaton  and  he  knew  what  that  departure 
would  mean  to  Grace.  She  was  suspicious  of  new  places  and  new 
people.  Strange  to  think  now  that  almost  the  only  person  of  whom 
she  had  not  been  suspicious  was  Maggie. 

Maggie!  His  mind  slowly  wheeled  round  to  her.  He  rose  from 
his  chair  and  began  clumsily  to  parade  the  room.  He  walked  up 
and  down  the  study  as  though  with  closed  eyes,  his  large  body 
bumping  against  corners  of  tables  and  chairs.  Maggie!  He 
looked  back,  as  of  late  he  had  often  done,  to  those  days  in  his 
cousin's  house  in  London.  What  had  happened  to  the  Maggie 
whom  he  had  known  there  ? 

He  saw  her  again,  so  quiet,  so  ready  to  listen  and  learn,  so 
modest,  and  yet  with  a  humour  and  sense  of  appreciation  that  had 
promised  well  for  the  future.  A  child— an  ignorant,  charming, 
uneducated  child,  that  is  what  she  had  seemed.  He  admitted  now 
that  his  heart,  always  too  soft  and  too  gentle  perhaps,  had  been 
touched  beyond  wisdom.  She  had  seemed  to  need  just  the  pro- 
tection and  advice  that  he  had  been  fitted  to  give  her.  Then,  as 
though  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  the  change  had  been  made ; 
from  the  moment  of  entering  into  Skenton  there  had  been  a  new 
Moggie.  He  could  not  tell  himself,  because  he  was  not  a  man 
clever  at  psychology,   in  what   the  change  consisted.     Had   he 


SOUL  OP  PAUL 


397 


been  pressed  be  nould  have  said  perbaps  that  be  had  known  the 
old  Maggie  intimately,  that  nothing  that  she  could  say  or  do 
astonished  him,  but  that  this  now  Maggie  was  altogether  a  stranger. 
Time  had  not  altered  that;  with  the  passing  months  he  had  known 
her  less  and  less.  Why,  at  their  first  meeting  long  ago  in  Kather- 
ine's  house  be  had  known  her  better  than  he  knew  her  now.  He 
traced  the  steps  of  their  history  in  Skeoton;  she  had  eluded  him 
always,  never  allowing  him  to  bold  her  for  more  than  a  moment, 
vanishing  and  appearing  again,  fantastic,  in  some  strange  lighted 
distance,  hurting  bim  and  disai)pointing  him.  ...  He  stopped  in 
his  walk,  bewildered.  He  saw,  with  a  sudden  flash,  that  she  had 
never  appeared  so  fascinating  to  him  as  when  she  had  been 
strangest.  He  saw  it  now  at  the  moment  when  she  seemed 
more  darkly  strange,  more  sinister  and  dangerous  than  ever 
before. 

He  realised,  too,  at  the  same  sharp  moment  the  conflict  in  which 
be  was  engaged.  On  the  one  side  was  all  his  life,  bis  sloth  and 
ease  and  comfort,  his  religion,  bis  good  name,  his  easy  intercourse 
with  bis  fellow-men,  Grace,  intellectual  laziness,  acceptance  of 
things  as  they  most  easily  are.  Skeaton,  regular  meals,  good  drain- 
age, moral,  physical  and  spiritual,  a  good  funeral  and  a  favourable 
obituary  in  The  Skeaton  Times.  On  the  other  hand  unrest,  ill- 
healtb,  separation  from  Grace,  an  elusive  and  never-to-be-satisfied 
pursuit,  scandal  and  possible  loss  of  religion,  unhappiness.  .  .  . 
At  least  it  was  to  bis  credit  that  be  realised  the  conflict;  it  is 
even  further  to  his  credit  that  be  grasped  and  admitted  the  hope- 
lessness of  it.  He  knew  which  way  he  would  go ;  even  now  be  was 
tired  with  the  thought  of  the  struggle;  be  sank  into  his  L*-abby 
chair  with  a  sigh  of  weariness;  his  band  stretched  out  instinctively 
for  an  easy  volume.  But  oh,  Maggie !  how  strange  and  fascinating 
at  that  moment  she  appeared  to  bim.  with  her  odd  silences,  her 
flashes  of  startled  surprise,  her  sense  of  being  half  the  day  in 
another  world,  her  kindness  him  and  then  her  sudden  terror 
of  him,  her  ignorance  and  ti.  the  conviction  that  she  gave  sud- 
denly to  him  that  she  knew  more  than  he  would  ever  know,  above 
all,  the  way  that  some  dark  spirit  deep  down  in  bim  supported 
her  wild  rebellions,  her  irreverences,  her  irreligion,  her  scorn  of 
tradition.  Oh!  she  was  a  witch!  Grace's  word  for  her  was  right, 
but  not  Grace's  sense  of  it.  The  more  Grace  was  shocked  the 
more  tempting  to  bim  the  witch  became.  It  bad  seemed  to  bim, 
that  day  in  Katberine's  drawing-room,  so  slight  a  thing  when  she 
had  said  that  she  did  not  love  him,  he  bad  no  doubt  but  that  he 
could  change  that.    How  could  a  child,  so  raw  and  ignorant,  resist 


398  THE  CAPTIVES 

auch  a  man  ?  And  yet  she  bad  resisted.  That  resistance  bad  been 
at  the  root  of  the  trouble.  Whichever  way  things  vent  now,  he 
was  a  defeated  man. 

The  door  opened  and  Grace  came  in.  Looking  at  her  he  realised 
that  she  would  never  understand  the  struggle  through  which  he  had 
been  timorously  wading,  and  saw  that  she  was  further  away  from 
him  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  He  blamed  her  too.  She  bad 
had  no  right  to  refuse  that  man  to  Maggie.  Had  she  allowed 
Maggie  to  see  him  none  of  this  might  have  occurred.  The  man 
was  a  forger  and  would,  had  he  lived,  have  gone  to  prison,  but 
there  would  not  then  have  been  the  same  open  scandal.  No,  ho 
blamed  Grace.  It  might  be  that  their  old  absolutely  confident 
intimacy  would  never  be  renewed.  He  felt  cold  and  lonely.  He 
bent  forward,  putting  some  coal  on  the  fire,  breaking  it  up  into  a 
cheerful  blaze.  Then  he  looked  up  at  her,  and  his  heart  was 
touched.  She  looked  to-day  an  old  woman.  Her  hair  was  untidy 
and  her  face  was  dull  grey  in  colour.  Her  eyes  moved  restlessly 
round  the  room,  wandering  from  picture  to  picture,  from  the 
mantelpiece  to  the  chairs,  from  the  chairs  to  the  book-shelves,  as 
though  she  sought  in  the  sight  of  these  well-remembered  things 
some  defence  and  security. 

"  Is  your  head  better  2 "  he  asked  her,  not  meeting  her  eyes, 
because  the  dull  pain  in  them  disturbed  him. 

"  Not  much."  she  said.  "  It's  very  bad,  my  head.  I've  taken 
aspirin.  I  didn't  eat  anything  yesterday.  Nothing  at  all  except 
some  bread  and  milk,  and  very  little  of  that.  ...  I  couldn't 
finish  it.  I  felt  I'd  be  sick.  I  said  to  Emily, '  Emily,  if  I  eat  any 
more  of  that  I'll  be  sick,'  and  Emily  advised  me  not  to  touch  it. 
What  I  mean  is  that  if  I'd  eaten  any  more  I'd  have  been  really 
sick — at  least  that's  what  I  felt  like." 

Her  restless  eyes  came  suddenly  to  a  jerking  pause  as  though 
some  one  had  caught  and  gripped  them.  She  was  suddenly 
dramatic.    "  Oh,  Paul,  what  are  we  going  to  do  ?  "  she  cried. 

Paul  was  irritated  by  that.  He  hated  to  be  asked  direct  questions 
as  to  policy. 

"  What  do  you  mean  what  are  we  going  to  do  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  about  this — about  everything.  We  shall  have  to  leave 
Skeaton,  you  know.    Fancy  what  people  are  saying  I " 

Suddenly,  as  though  the  thought  of  the  scandal  was  too  much 
for  her,  her  knees  gave  way  and  she  flopped  into  a  chair. 

"  Well,  let  them  say !  "  he  answered  vigorously.  "  Grace,  you're 
making  too  much  of  all  this.  You'll  be  ill  if  you  aren't  careful. 
Pull  yourself  together." 


SOUL  OF  PAUL 


399 


"  Of  course  we've  got  to  go,"  she  answered.  "  If  you  think  that 
we  can  go  on  IWing  here  after  all  that's  happened " 

"  Well,  why  not? "  he  interrupted.  "  We  haven't  done  anything 
It  »  only "  ^^' 

'•  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say."  (It  was  one  of  Grace's 
most  irritating  habits  that  she  finished  other  people's  sentences  for 
them  in  a  way  that  they  had  not  intended)  "  that  if  they  look  at 
It  properly  they'll  see  that  it  wasn't  our  fault.  But  will  they  look 
at  It  properly?  Of  course  they  won't.  You  know  what  oats  they 
are.  They  re  only  waiting  for  a  chance.  What  I  mean  is  that  this 
IS  just  the  chance  they've  been  waiting  for. 

"How  can  you  go  on  and  every  time  you  preach  they'll  be 
looking  up  at  you  and  saying  'There's  a  brother  of  a  murderer'? 
Why,  fancy  what  you'd  feel !  " 

Paul  jumped  in  his  chair.  "What  do  you  mean,  Grace?  Tha 
brother  of  a  murderer  ? " 

"What  else  am  I?"  Grace  began  to  warm  her  podgy  hands. 

It  came  out  at  the  inquest  that  I  wouldn't  see  the  man,  didn't  it? 
Maggie  thinks  me  a  murderer.  I  see  it  in  her  eyes  every  time. 
What  I  mean  to  say,  Paul,  is.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
Maggie?" 

Grace's  voice  changed  at  that  question.  It  waa  as  though  that 
other  trouble  of  the  scandal  were  nothing  to  her  compared  with 
this  matter  of  Maggie's  presence.  Paul  turned  and  looked  at  her 
she  dropped  her  voice  to  a  whisper  and  went  on- 

"  I  won't  stay  with  Maggie  any  more.  No,  no,  nol  You  must 
choose,  Paul,  between  Maggie  and  me.  What  I  mean  is  that  it 
simply  isn  t  safe  m  the  same  house  with  her.  You  may  not  have 
noticed  it  yourself,  but  I've  seen  it  coming  on  a  long  time  I 
have  indeed.  She  isn't  right  in  her  head,  and  she  hates  me.  She's 
always  hated  me.  She'd  like  to  do  me  an  injury.  She  follows  me 
round  the  house  She's  always  watching  me,  and  now  that  she 
thinks  that  I  killed  her  uncle  it's  worse.  I'm  not  safe,  Paul,  and 
that  s  the  truth.  She  hides  in  my  room  behind  the  curtains  waiting 
forme.  It  s  my  safety  you've  got  to  consider.  It's  me  or  her  I 
know  she's  your  wife,  but  what  I  mean  is  that  there'll  be  some- 
thing awful  happening  if  you  aren't  careful." 

Grace,  as  she  spoke,  was  a  woman  in  the  very  heart  of  a  des- 
perate panic  Her  whole  body  trembled:  her  face  was  transfixed 
as  though  she  saw  Maggie  standing  in  front  of  her  there  with  a 
knife.  No  one  looking  at  her  could  deny  that  she  was  in  mortal 
terror— no  affectation  here.  And  Paul  loved  her.  He  came  over 
to  her  and  put  his  arm  round  her;  she  caught  hold  of  his  hand 


400 


THE  CAPTIVES 


clutched  it  desperately.    When  he  felt  the  trembling  of  her  body 
beneath  his  hand  his  love  for  her  and  protective      -e  of  her  over- 

"'if'Gral^Tear,  it's  all  right,"  he  suid.  "You're  exaggerating  all 
this.  Maggie  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly-indeed,  she  wouldnt.  bhe  has 
her  faults,  perhaps,  but  cruelty  isn''  one  of  them.  You  mu8 
remember  that  she's  had  a  bad  time  lately  losing  her  aunt  and 
then  finding  her  uncle  in  that  horrible  way.  After  all,  she  s  only 
a  child  I  know  that  you  two  haven't  got  on  well  together,  and  1 
daresay  that  it  has  been  very  largely  my  fault;  but  you  mustn  t  be 
frightened  like  that.  Noharm  shall  come  to  you  so  long  as  1  am 
alive — no  harm  whatever."  . 

But  she  stared  in  front  of  her,  like  a  woman  in  a  dream,  re- 

''^"*N^no,  Paul.  Either  she  goes  or  I  go.  She's  your  wife.  She 
must  stay.  Then  I  must  go.  I  cf n;t  stand  it ;  I  can  t  mdeed 
I'm  not  sleeping;  Pm  not  indeed.  It  isn't  fair  to  ask  it.  What  I 
mean  is  that  it  isn't  fair  to  me." 

Although  he  had  known  Grace  for  years  he  still  be  leved  her 
threats  and  promises.  «  My  sister's  an  obstinate  woman,  he  would 
say,  although  had  he  looked  truly  into  his  experience  he  must  have 
seen  'hat  she  changed  her  mind  more  frequently  by  far  than  she 
changed  her  clothes.  He  thought  that  now  she  meant  what  she 
.  said-  indeed,  on  his  own  side  he  really  did  not  see  how  in  the 
future  Maggie  and  Grace  could  continue  to  live  in  the  same  house. 
But,  as  Grace  had  said,  he  was  married  to  Maggie  and  therefore  it 
was  Grace  that  must  go.  Then  when  ^e  confronted  the  fact  o. 
Grace's  departure  he  could  not  endure  it.  No,  he  could  not.  Had 
Maggie  been  everything  to  him  that  she  might  have  been  had  she 
been  his  true  wife,  had  she  loved  him,  had  she-oh!  a  thousand 
things  she  might  have  been '.-then  perhaps  life  would  be  possible 
without  Grace.  But  now!  .  .  .  at  the  thought  of  being  alone  for 
ever  with  Maggie  a  strange  passion,  mingled  of  fascination  and 
fear,  affection  and  sensuality,  cowar.'=ce  and  «f «°«'"' f  ""f^^ 
him.  What  would  their  life  together  be?  Then  he  turned  to  Grace 
as  the  very  rock  of  his  safety. 

"Oh,   Grace,   jou   mustn't   go— you  mustn't  think   of   going. 
Whatever  should  I  do  without  you!" 

A  dull  flush  of  gratiflcation  coloured  her  cheeks. 

"Either  she  goes  or  I,"  she  repeated.    " It  can t  go  on.    )ou 
must   see   that   it   can't.    Fancy   what   people   must    be   think- 


ing 


As  always,  he  postponed  the  issue. 


SOUL  OP  PAUL 


401 


"  Well  Mttle  something.  Don't  you  worry,  dear.  You  go  and 
lie  dovn.    That's  what  you  want — a  thorough  good  rest." 

She  plodded  off.  For  himself  he  decided  that  fresh  air  was  what 
he  needed.  He  went  for  a  stroll.  As  soon  as  he  was  in  the 
Charleston  Road  that  led  to  the  High  Street  he  was  pleased  with 
the  day.  Early  spring;  mild,  faint  haze,  trees  dimly  purple,  a 
bird  clucking,  the  whisper  of  the  sea  stirrint,  the  warm  puddles 
and  rivulets  across  the  damp  dim  road.  Warm,  yes,  warm  and 
promising.  Lent  .  .  .  tiresome.  Long  services,  gloomy  ser- 
mons. Bebuking  people,  scolding  them— made  them  angry,  did 
them  no  good.  Then  Easter.  That  was  better.  Jolly  hymns. 
"Christ  is  risen!  Christ  is  risen  1"  Jolly  flowers— primroses, 
crocuses— (no,  they  were  earlier).  They'll  have  forgotten  about 
Maggie's  uncle  by  then.  Live  it  down— that's  the  thing.  Give 
them  a  good  genial  sermon  this  Sunday.  Show  them  he  wasn't 
caring.  ...  If  only  the  women  would  get  on  together.  Women 
—women.  How  difficult  they  were  I  Yes,  Sunday  would  be  diffi- 
cult—facing them  all.  He  knew  what  they'd  be  thinking.  He 
wanted  to  be  jolly  again.  Jolly.  That  was  the  thing.  Joking  with 
Grace,  jolly  even  with  Maggie.  Jolly  with  his  congregation.  Jolly 
with  God.  Why  wasn't  be  left  alone?  Had  been  until  Maggie 
came.  Maggie  like  a  stone  flung  into  a  frosty  pool !  Broke  every- 
thing up,  simply  because  she  was  unlike  other  people.  He'd  mar- 
ried her  because  he  thought  he  could  make  her  into  what  he 
pleased.  Well,  it  had  been  the  other  way.  Oh,  she  was  queer, 
queer,  queer. 

He  stopped,  his  large  boots  in  a  warm  puddle.  He  felt  the  warm 
sun  hot  through  the  damp  mist.  He  wanted  to  take  her  into  his 
arms,  to  hug  her,  above  all  to  feel  her  response.  To  feel  her 
response,  that  was  what,  for  years  now,  he  had  been  wanting,  and 
never  once  had  she  responded.  Never  once.  She  let  him  do  as  he 
pleased,  but  she  was  passive.  She  didn't  love  him.  Grace  loved 
him,  but  how  dull  Grace  was !  Dull— it  was  all  dull  I  Grace  was 
dull,  Skeaton  was  dull,  the  church  was  dull— God  was  dull!  God? 
Where  was  God?  He  looked  around.  There  was  no  God.  To 
what  had  he  been  praying  all  these  years?  He  had  not  been  pray- 
ing. His  congregation  had  not  been  praying.  They  were  all  dead 
and  God  was  dead  too. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  that  his  boots  were  in  a  puddle.  He 
walked  on.  For  a  moment,  the  mists  of  sloth  and  self-indulgence 
that  had  for  years  obscured  his  vision  had  shifted  and  cleared, 
but  even  as  he  moved  they  settled  down  and  resolved  themselves 
once  more.     Ths  muscles  of  Paul's  soul  were  stiff  with  disuse. 


402  THE  CAPTIVES 

Training  ia  a  lengthy  affair  and  ■  tireaome  buaineu  to  the  itout 
and  middle-aged. 

The  hedgea  gave  way  to  houaea;  he  was  in  the  High  Street. 
He  saw  then,  plastered  at  intervals  on  the  boardiunca,  strange 
phenomena.  It  was  the  colour  that  first  attracted  him— a  bright 
indecent  pink  with  huge  black  lettering.  Because  it  was  the  off- 
season in  Skeaton  other  announcements  were  few.  All  the  more 
prominent  then  the  following: 

THE  KmaSCOTE  BRETHKEN 

WILL    HOLD    A 

RELIGIOUS  FESTIVAL 

IN  THE  TOWN  OF  SKEATON-ON-SEA 

From  Apiiil  10  to  16. 


SERVICES  10  A.M.,  3  P.M. 

SPECIAL  SONG  SERVICE,  7.30  p.m.  Daily 

All  are  Cordially  Invited. 

Addresses  by 

Rev.  JOHN  THURSTON. 

Rev.  WILLIAM  CRASHAW. 

Sister  AVIES. 

Paul  stared  at  this  placard  with  horror  and  disgust  in  his  soul. 
For  the  moment  Maggie  and  Grace  and  all  the  scandal  connected 
with  them  was  forgotten.  This  was  terrible.  By  temperament, 
tradition,  training,  he  loathed  and  fr'^red  every  phase  of  religion 
known  to  him  as  •  Methodistio."  Under  this  term  he  included 
everything  that  was  noisy,  demonstrative,  ill-bred  and  melodra- 
matic. Once  when  an  undergraduate  at  Cambridge  he  had  gone  to 
some  meeting  of  the  kind.  There  had  been  impromptu  prayers, 
ghastly  pictures  of  hell-fire,  appeals  to  the  undergraduates  to  save 
themselves  at  once  lest  it  be  too  late,  confessions  and  appeals  for 
mercy.  The  memory  of  that  evening  still  filled  him  with  physical 
nausea.  It  was  to  him  as  though  he  had  seen  some  i^ross  indecent 
act  in  public  or  witnessed  some  horrible  cruelty. 

Maggie  had  told  him  very  little  nhout  the  Chapel  and  its  doings, 
and  he  had  shrunk  from  asking  her  any  questions,  hot  everything 
that  was  odd  and  unusual  in  her  behaviour  he  attributed  to  her 


SOIIL  OP  PAUL 


403 


months  under  that  influence.  Aa  he  atared  at  the  flaunting  pink 
aheet  he  felt  aa  though  it  were  a  direct  peraonal  asaault  on  him- 
aeif  and  his  church. 

And  yet  he  knew  that  he  could  do  nothing.  Once  before  there 
had  been  something  of  the  kind  in  Skeaton  and  he  hod  tried  with 
others  to  stop  it.  Ho  had  failed  utterly;  the  civic  nuthoritici  in 
Skeaton  eeemed  almost  to  approve  of  these  horrors.  He  looked  at 
the  thing  once  more  and  then  turned  back  towards  home.  Some- 
thing must  be  done.  .  .  .  Something  must  be  done  .  .  .  but.  as 
on  80  many  earlier  occasions  in  his  life,  he  could  face  no  clear 
course  of  action. 

That  Saturday  evening  he  tried  to  change  his  sermon.  He  had 
determined  to  deliver  a  very  fine  address  on  "  Brotherly  Love " 
and  then,  most  fortunately,  he  had  discovered  a  five-years'  old  ser- 
mon that  would,  with  a  little  adaptation,  exactly  fit  the  situa- 
tion. 

To-night  he  was  sick  of  his  adaptation.  The  sermon  hod  not 
been  a  good  one  at  the  first,  and  now  it  was  a  tattered  thing  of 
shreds  and  patches.  He  tried  to  add  to  it  some  sentences  about 
the  approaching  "  Revival."  No  sentences  would  come.  What  a 
horrible  fortnight  it  had  been!  Ho  looked  back  upon  his  district 
visiting,  his  meetings,  his  choir-practices  with  disgust.  Something 
bad  come  in  between  himself  and  his  people.  Perhaps  the  rela- 
tionship had  never  been  very  real  ?  Founded  on  jollity.  An  eager- 
ness to  accept  anybody's  mood  for  one's  own  if  only  that  meant 
jollity.  What  had  he  thought,  standing  in  the  puddle  that  after- 
noon? That  they  were  all  dead,  he  and  his  congregation  and  God, 
all  dead  together?  He  sank  into  his  chair,  picked  up  the  Church 
Times,  and  fell  asleep. 

Next  morning  as  he  walked  into  the  choir  this  extraordinary 
impression  that  his  consregotion  was  dead  persisted.  As  he  recited 
the  "  Confession  "  he  looked  about  him.  There  was  Mr.  Maxse, 
and  there  Miss  Purvea.  Every  one  was  in  his  and  her  appointed 
place;  old  Colonel  Eideout  with  the  purple  gills  not  kneeling  be- 
cause of  his  gout;  young  Edward  Walter,  heir  to  the  sugar  factory, 
not  kneeling  becatise  he  was  lazy ;  sporting  Mr.  Harper,  whose  golf 
handicap  was  +3,  not  kneeling  because  to  do  so  would  spoil  the 
crease  of  his  trousers ;  old  Mrs.  Dean  with  her  bonnet  and  bugles, 
the  worst  gossip  in  Skeaton.  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven;  the  Quiller 
girls  with  their  hard  red  colour  and  their  hard  bright  eyes;  Mr. 
Fortinum,  senior,  with  his  County  Council  stomach  and  his  J.P. 
neck;  the  dear  old  Miss  Fursleis  who  believed  in  God  and  lived 
accordingly;  young  Captain  Trent,  who  believed  in  his  mouatacha 


404 


THE  CAPTIVES 


■nd  lived  accordingly.  ...  Oh  jct,  then  the;  all  were — tad 
there,  too,  were  Oraoe  and  Uiggia  kneelinc  tide  by  aide. 

Maggie  t  Bia  eyea  rested  upon  her.  Her  face  suddenly  atruck 
him  as  being  of  extraordinary  beauty.  He  bad  never  thought  her 
beautiful  before;  rery  plain,  'f  course.  Every  one  knew  that  she 
was  plain.  But  to^di «  her  faco  and  profile  bad  the  simplicity,  the 
purity,  the  courage  nf  a  Madonna  in  one  of  the  old  pictures — or, 
rather,  uf  one  of  thosa  St.  John  the  Baptist  boys  gazing  up  into 
the  face  of  tho  Christ-child  as  it  lay  in  its  mother's  arms.  He 
finished  the  "  Confession  "  hurriedly — Maggie's  face  faded  from  his 
view;  ho  saw  now  only  a  garden  of  hats  and  heads,  the  bright 
varnished  colour  of  the  church  around  and  about  them  all. 

He  gave  out  the  psalms;  there  was  s  rustle  of  leaves,  and  soon 
shrill,  untrained  voices  of  the  choir-boys  were  screaming  the  chant 
like  a  number  of  baby  steam-whistles  in  competition. 

When  be  climbed  into  the  pulpit  he  tried  again  to  discover 
Maggie's  face  aa  he  had  already  seen  it.  He  could  not ;  it  had  been, 
perhaps,  a  trick  of  light  and,  in  any  case,  she  was  bidden  now  be- 
hind the  stout  stolidity  of  Orace.  He  looked  around  at  the  other 
faces  beneath  him  and  saw  them  settle  themselves  into  their  custo- 
mary expressions  of  torpor,  vacuity  and  expectation.  Very  little 
expectation!  They  knew  well  enough,  by  this  time,  the  kind  of 
thing  to  expect  from  him.  the  turn  of  phrase,  the  rise  and  fall  of 
the  voice,  the  pause  dramatic,  the  whisper  expostulatory,  the  thrust 
imperative,  the  smile  seductive. 

He  had  often  been  told,  as  a  curate,  that  he  was  a  wonderful 
preacher.  His  round  jolly  face,  his  beaming  smile,  a  certain  dra- 
matic gift,  had  helped  him.  "  He  is  so  human,"  be  had  heard 
people  say.  For  many  years  he  had  lived  on  that  phrase.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  this  morning  he  distrusted  his  gift.  He  was 
out  of  touch  with  them  all — because  they  were  dead,  killed  by  forms 
and  repatitions  and  monotony.  "  We're  all  dead,  you  know,  and 
Fm  dead  too.  Let's  close  the  doors  and  seal  this  church  up.  Our 
day  is  over."  He  said  of  course  nothing  of  the  kind.  His  aermon 
was  stupid,  halting  and  ineffective. 

"  Naturally,"  as  Colonel  Bideout  said  over  his  port  at  lunch, 
"  when  a  feller's  wife's  uncle  has  just  hung  himself  in  public,  so 
to  speak,  it  does  take  the  wind  out  of  you.  He  usen't  to  preach 
badly  once.    Got  atale.    They  all  do." 

As  Pavl  dismissed  the  congregation  with  the  Blessing  he  felt 
that  everything  was  over.  He  was  more  completely  miserable  than 
he  bad  ever  been.  He  had  in  fact  never  before  been  really  miser- 
able except  when  he  had  the  toothache. 


SOUL  OF  PAUL 


405 


And  DOW,  also,  the  custom  of  yean  made  it  impottible  for  him 
to  be  miserable  for  long.  He  had  had  no  real  talk  with  UnRgie 
since  the  inquest.  Uaggie  came  into  his  stud;  that  afternoon. 
Their  conversation  was  very  quiet  and  undomoDStrative ;  it  hap- 
pened to  be  one  of  the  most  important  conxrutions  in  both  their 
lives,  anil,  often  afterwards,  Paul  looked  back  'o  it.  trying  to 
retrace  in  it  the  sentences  and  movc-mcnta  with  which  it  had  been 
built  up.  He  could  never  recover  anything  very  much.  He  oould 
see  Maggie  sitting  in  a  way  that  she  had  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
looking  at  him  and  looking  also  far  beyond  him.  He  knew  after- 
wards that  this  was  the  last  nioraent  in  bis  life  thf.t  he  had  any 
contact  with  her.  Like  a  witch,  like  a  ghost,  she  bad  come  into 
his  life;  like  a  witch,  like  a  ghost,  she  went  out  of  it,  leaving  him, 
for  the  remainder  of  his  days,  a  haunted  man. 

As  he  looked  at  her  he  realised  that  she  had  aged  in  this  last 
fortnight.  Tea,  that  horrible  affair  had  taken  it  out  oi  her.  She 
seemed  to  have  recovered  self-control  at  some  strange  and  onnatu- 
ral  cost — as  though  she  had  taken  some  potion  or  drug. 

She  '    gnn  by  asking  Grace's  question: 

**  Paul,  what  are  we  going  to  do?  " 

But  she  did  not  irritate  bim  as  Grace  had  done.  His  one  idea 
was  to  help  her ;  unfortunately  he  had  himself  thought  out  nothing 
clearl}-. 

"  Well,  Maggie."  he  answered,  smiling,  "  I  thought  you  might, 
help  me  about  that.  I  want  your  advice.  I  thought — well,  as  a 
matter  of  fact  I  hadn't  settled  anything — but  I  thought  that  I 
might  get  a  locum  for  a  month  or  two  and  we  might  go  abroad  for 
a  trip  perhaps.    To  Parij",  or  Venice,  or  somewhere." 

"  And  then  come  back  ? "  she  osked. 

"  Tor  a  time — yes — certainly,"  he  answered. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  ever  come  back  to  Skeaton,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper,  as  though  speaking  to  herself.  He  could  see  what  she  was 
controlling  herself  and  steadying  her  voice  with  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty. "  Of  course  I  must  come.  Paul,  if  you  want  me  to.  It's 
been  nil  my  fault  from  the  very  beginning " 

"  Oh  no,"  he  broke  in,  "  it  hasn't." 

"  Yes,  it  has.  I've  ju.st  spoilt  your  life  and  Grace's.  Tou  were 
both  very  happy  until  I  came.  I  hod  no  right  to  marry  vou  when 
I  didn't  love  you.  I  didn't  know  then  all  I  know  now.  But  that's 
no  excuse.  I  should  have  known.  I  was  younger  than  most  girls 
are.  though." 

Paul  said: 

"But  Maggie,  you're  net  to  blame  yourself  at  ail.    I  lliink  if 


406 


THE  CAPTIVES 


we  were  •omcwhen  cNr  thin  Skeiton  it  woulil  be  caticr.  And  now 
■fter  whot  Iim  bappciind " 

llumiii'  Lrnko  in: 

"  You  .•ouldn't  Icre  Skcaton.  Paul.  You  know  you  couldn't. 
It  would  ju.t  break  your  heart.  All  the  work  of  your  life  haa  been 
bere— cvcrythInK  you've  ever  done.    And  Grace  too." 

"No,  no.  you're  wrong."  aaid  Paul  viuoroualy.  « A  cbanRc  ia 
probably  what  I  need.  I've  been  too  long  in  the  aame  place.  Time 
iroea  io  faat  that  one  doean't  rcaliae.  And  for  Grace,  too,  I  cupcct 
a  chanKc  will  be  better." 

"And  do  you  think,"  aaid  lla«jie,  "that  Grace  will  ever  live 
with  mc  now  m  the  aanic  house  when  ahc  koowa  that  I've  driven 
you  from  Skcaton?  Grace  ia  quite  right.  She',  ju.t  to  feci  a»  .he 
doca  about  me. 

"Then  Grace  must  go."  aaid  Paul  firmly,  looking  at  Maggie  and 
feeling  that  the  one  thing  that  he  needed  waa  that  ahc  ahould  bo 
in  hia  anna  and  he  kianing  her.    "  Maggie,  if  we  go  away,  you  and 

1,  right  away  from  all  of  this,  perhapa  then  you  can— you  will " 

he  stopped. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Never.  Paul.  Never.  Do  you  know  what 
I  vc  aeen  this  last  week?  That  I've  left  all  those  who  really  wanted 
me.  My  aunts,  very  much  they  needed  me.  and  I  was  selfish  and 
wouldn  t  give  them  what  they  wanted,  and  tried  to  escape  from 
them.  You  and  Grace  don't  need  me.  Nobody  wants  anything  hero 
in  Skcaton.  You're  nil  full.  It  isn't  my  fault,  Paul,  but  every- 
thing seems  to  me  dead  here.  They  don't  mean  anything  they  aay 
m  Church,  and  the  Church  doesn't  mean  anything  either.  Iho 
Chapel  was  wrong  in  London  too.  but  it  was  more  right  than  the 
Church  hero  is.  I  don't  know  what  religion  is  or  where  it  is: 
I  don  t  know  anything  now  except  that  one  ought  to  be  with  the 
people  who  want  one  and  not  with  the  people  who  don't.  Aunt 
wanted  mo  and  I  failed  her.    Uncle  wanted  me  and  I— I— I " 

She  broke  down,  crying,  her  head  in  her  arms.  He  went  over 
to  her  and  put  his  arms  around  her.  At  his  touch  she  shrank  a 
little,  and  when  ho  felt  that  he  went  away  from  her  and  stood, 
silently,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 

"Maggie,  don't— don't.  Maggie.    I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  cry." 
Ive  done  al!  wrong— I've  done  all  wrong,"  she  answered  him. 

1  ve  tietn  wrong  always." 

His  helplessness  was  intolerable.  He  knew  that  she  would  not 
allow  him  to  touch  her.  He  went  out  closing  the  door  softly  be- 
iiind  him. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  REVIVAL 

MAGGIE  cried  for  •  litllg  while,  then,  ilowty  recoTwinir. 
reallKil  that  ibe  wai  alone  in  the  room.  She  raianl  her 
head  and  littened;  then  she  dried  her  eyes  and  atood  up,  wonderinir 
what  ahe  should  do  next. 

DurinR  the  lait  week  the  bad  apent  all  her  energy  on  one  tliinn 
alone— to  keep  back  from  her  the  picture  of  Uncle  Mathew's  diath. 
That  at  all  costs  she  must  not  we.  There  it  was,  just  behiriil  her' 
hoverinir  with  all  its  detail,  at  her  elbow.  All  day  and  most  of  tho 
night  she  waa  conscious  of  it  there,  but  she  would  not  turn  and 
look.  Uncle  Mathew  was  dead— that  was  all  that  she  must  know. 
Aunt  Anne  was  dead  too.  Martin  hod  written  to  her,  and  then, 
because  she  had  not  answered,  had  abandoned  her.  Paul  and 
Grace  were  to  be  driven  out  of  Skeaton  because  of  her.  Grace 
hated  her;  Paul  would  never  love  her  unless  she  in  return  would 
love  him— and  that  abo  would  never  do  because  she  loved  Martin. 
She  was  alone  then. 

She  had  made  every  one  unhappy— Aunt  Anne,  Uncle  Mathew 
Paul.  Grace;  the  beat  thing  that  she  could  do  now  was  to  go  away 
and  hide  herself  somewhere. 

That,  at  leaat,  she  saw  very  cUarly  and  she  clung  U:  i[.  If  she 
went  away  Paul  and  Grace  need  not  leave  Skeaton;  soon  thoy 
would  forget  her  and  be  happy  once  more  as  they  had  been  bcforo 
ahe  came.  But  whore  should  she  go?  All  her  life  she  had  de- 
pended upon  her  own  self-reliance,  but  now  that  had  left  her.  She 
felt  as  though  she  could  not  mce  unless  there  was  some  one  some- 
where who  cared  for  her.  But  there  was  no  one.  Kntherine  Mnrk. 
No,  she  certainly  could  never  go  there  again.  Behind  all  this 
was  the  constant  preoccupation  that  she  must  not  look,  for 
an  instant,  at  Uncle  Mathew'a  death.  If  she  did  everything 
would  break.  ...  She  must  not.  She  must  not.  She  must 
not. 

She  went  up  to  her  bedroom,  took  from  their  box  Martin's  letters 
and  the  ring  with  the  three  pearls,  and  the  tattered  programme. 
She  sat  on  her  bed  and  turned  them  over  and  over.     She  was  be- 
wildered and  scarcely  knew  where  she  was.     She  repeated  again 
407 


408 


THE  CAPTIVES 


m 


and  again:  "I  must  go  away  at  once.  ...  I  must  go  away  at 
once." 

Then  as  though  moved  by  some  compelling  force  that  she  did 
not  recognise  she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed.  crying:  "  Martin, 
Martin,  I  want  you.  I  don't  know  where  you  are  but  I  must  find 
you.  Martin,  tell  me  where  you  are.  I'll  go  to  you  anywhere. 
Martin,  where  are  you  ?    Where  are  you  ? " 

It  may  not  have  been  a  vocal  cry;  perhaps  she  made  no  sound, 
but  she  waited,  there  on  her  knees,  hearing  very  clearly  the  bells 
ringing  for  evening  service  and  seeing  the  evening  sun  steal 
across  her  carpet  and  touch  gently,  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

Gradually  as  she  knelt  there,  calm  and  reassurance  came  back 
to  her.  She  felt  as  though  he,  somewhere  lost  in  the  world,  had 
heard  her.  She  laid  her  check  upon  the  quilt  of  the  bed  and.  for 
the  first  time  since  Uncle  Mathew's  death,  her  thoughts  worked  in 
connected  order,  her  courage  returned  to  her,  and  she  saw  the  room 
and  ihe  sun  and  the  trees  beyond  the  window  as  real  objects,  with- 
out the  mist  of  terror  and  despair  that  had  hitherto  surrounded 
her. 

She  rose  from  her  knees  as  though  she  were  withdrawing  from 
a  horrible  nightmare.  She  could  remember  nothing  of  the  events 
of  the  last  week  save  her  talk  with  Paul  that  afternoon.  She 
could  recall  nothing  of  the  inquest,  nor  whether  she  had  been  to 
Church,  nor  any  scene  with  Grace. 

"So  long  as  I'm  alive  and  Martin's  alive  it's  all  right,"  she 
thought.    She  knew  that  he  was  alive.    She  would  find  him. 

She  put  away  the  things  into  the  box  again;  she  had  not  yet 
thotjght  what  she  would  do,  but,  in  some  way,  she  had  received 
during  those  few  minutes  in  her  room  a  reassurance  that  she  was 
not  alone. 

She  went  out  into  the  spring  dusk.  She  chose  the  road  towards 
Bamham  Wood  because  it  was  lonely  there  and  the  hedges  were 
thin;  you  could  feel  the  breath  of  the  sea  as  it  blew  across  the 
sparse  fields.  The  hush  of  an  English  Sunday  evening  enfolded 
the  road,  the  wood,  the  fields.  The  sun  was  very  low  and  the 
saffron  light  penetrated  the  dark  lines  of  the  hedges  and  hung  like 
a  curtain  of  misty  gold  before  the  approaches  to  the  wood.  The 
red-brown  fields  rolled  to  the  horizon  and  lay,  like  a  carpet,  at  the 
foot  of  the  town  huddled  against  the  pale  sky. 

She  was  near  the  wood,  and  could  see  the  little  dark  twisted  cone- 
strewn  paths  that  led  into  the  purple  depths,  when  a  woman  came 
out  of  it  towards  her.  She  saw  that  it  was  Miss  Toms.  It  seemed 
quite  natural  to  see  her  there  because  it  was  on  this  same  road 


THE  REVIVAL  409 

that  she  had  first  met  the  lady  and  her  brother.    Miss  Toms  also 
hand"      '**"  *'        surprised.    Sho  shook  Mapgio  warmly  by  the 

«  r^"",^*,"'*  *•""  ^  "■""'■'n't  come  often  to  see  vmi,"  snid  M.iircie 

I  knew'l:  tt  tim™"    '''''"''  '"  ^  '""  "'""'  ''^^'"'■*  ^"  ^^  ''-' 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Mi-  i  Toms. 

"But  I  ought  to  tell  you."  -,:o  M.-,ggic.  '  cUat  althcsh  I  haven't 
been  to  see  you  I've  felt  as  ,..  „ph  yn.  an  1  your  brother  were  my 
friends,  more  than  any  one  in  this  p;„.v.  And  that's  been  a  great 
nelp  to  me. 

They  started  to  walk  down  the  road  together 

^,."I''"u''^''•!"  I"  '"■<>"]''?•"  ^"'"^  ^^'^^  'r°"«-    "Of  ™"so  I'vo 
heard  about  it.     I  would  have  liked  to  come  and  aeo  you  but  I 
aian  t  know  how  your  sister-in-law  would  like  it." 
She  put  her  arm  through  Maggie's. 

i.'Zj  ^fT"  '^  "'''^'  "J°''l  '"'  ^'=™»f«B<=d.  Because  Skcaton 
«  dead  .t  doesn't  mean  that  all  the  world  ii.    And  remember  this. 

^.M  u  !J'7  ""/  T  }'  "'^"  "">  "»'■'  ™^-  I  l^now  that 
the  world  thinks  my  brother's  mad,  but  I  know  that  he's  a  lot 
saner  than  most  people.  The  world  thinks  your  uncle  was  a  rascal 
but  If  you  can  remember  one  good  thing  he  did  you  know  he  wasn't, 
and  1  m  sure  you  can  remember  many  good  things  " 

"It  isn't  that,"  said  Maggie.  "It  is  that  I  s^m  to  have  done 
everything  wrong  and  made  every  one  I  had  to  do  with  unhappy." 
Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Toms.  "I'm  sure  if  thev've  been  un- 
happy it  s  their  own  fault.  Isn't  tho  evening  air  lovely  ?  At  times 
like  these  I  wonder  that  Skeaton  can  dare  to  exist.  You'll  come 
and  see  us  one  day,  won't  you  ? " 

"I  think-I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie;  «I  may  be  going  away." 

Miss  Toms  gave  her  a  penetrating  look. 

rtV^^'TY;'""'"''"'*'"-  Sk^'"™'^  not  the  place  for  you.  I  saw 
that  the  firs    time  we  met.    -nTell.  whatever  you  do.  don't  lose  vour 

^I^  n  .1"  "^  "T^"^^'  r"  ^1°^'  ""^  '"'"''■<'  "'  K°°d  as  anybody 
else.  Don  t  you  forget  that.  Because  a  lot  of  people  sav  a  thing 
It  doesnt  mean  it  s  true,  and  because  a  set  of  idiots  think  a  thing 
shocking  It  doesn't  mean  that  it's  shocking.  Think  how  wrong 
people  have  always  been  about  everything ! " 

They  turned  down  a  side  lane  and  arrived  in  the  High  Street 

.»    ".TJ"'  •^'^  ■"""•'■.■    ^"  """  ^"^'""^  "«''*  "  '"'•BP  Pi"l=  poster 
attracted  Maggies  attention.     She  went  close  to  it  and  read  the 
announcement  of  the  Revival  services. 
When  she  read  the  names  of  Thurston  and  Mr.  Crashaw  and 


410 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Miss  Aviea  it  seemed  to  her  incredible,  and  then  at  the  same  time 
as  something  that  she  had  always  expected. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "  it's  coming  here !  "  She  was  strangely  startled 
as  though  the  sign  of  Thurston's  name  was  strange  forewarning. 

"  What's  coming* "  asked  iUiss  Toms. 

She  read  the  notice. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  think,"  said  Miss  Toms,  "but  that  kind 
of  thing's  humbug  if  you  ask  l    ." 

"  OhI  "  Maggie  cried.  "  It's  so  strange.  I  knew  those  people  in 
London.  I  used  to  go  to  their  services.  And  now  they're  cominc 
here ! " 

She  could  not  explain  to  Miss  Toms  the  mysterious  assurance 
that  she  had  of  the  way  that  her  former  world  was  drawing  near 
to  her  again.  She  could  see  now  that  never  for  a  moment  since 
her  arrival  in  Skeaton  had  it  let  her  alone,  slowly  invading  her, 
bit  by  bit  driving  in  upon  her,  forcing  her  to  retire.  ... 

It  was  quite  dark  now.  Because  it  was  Sunday  evening'  the  shops 
were  closed.  Only  behind  some  of  the  curtained  windows  dim 
lights  burned.  Very  clearly  the  sea  could  be  heard  breaking  upon 
the  shore.  The  last  note  of  the  bell  from  the  Methodist  Chapel 
echoed  across  the  roofs  and  stones. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Miss  Toms. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Maggie. 

She  turned  back  towards  home  hearing,  as  she  went,  Thurston's 
voice,  seeing  beyond  all  the  thick  shadow  of  Martin's  body  keeping 
pace  with  her,  as  it  seemed,  step  by  step  with  her  as  she  went 

She  turned  into  the  Rectory  drive.  She  heard  with  a  startled 
shiver  the  long  gate  swing  screaming  behind  her,  she  could  smell 
very  faintly  the  leaves  of  the  damp  cold  laurel  bushes  that  pressed 
close  in  upon  her.  It  was  as  though  some  one  were  walking  with 
her  and  whisperi  ng  in  her  ear :  "  They're  coming !  They're  coming ! 
They've  got  you  I    They've  got  you !  " 

She  opened  the  hall  door;  the  hall  was  all  dark;  some  one  was 
there.  Maggie  gave  a  little  cry.  A  match  was  struck  and  revealed 
the  white  face  of  Grace.    The  two  women  stared  at  one  another. 

Grace  had  returned  from  Church;  she  was  wearing  her  ugly 
black  hat  with  the  red  velvet. 

''^  It's  all  right,"  said  Maggie,  "  I've  been  for  a  walk." 
"  Oh— I  didn't  know,"  gasped  Grace,  still  staring.     « I  thought 
—yes,  of  course.    Fancy,  you've  been  for  a  walk !  " 

Still  staring  as  though  she  could  keep  Jfaggie  at  bay  only  by  the 
power  of  her  vision  she  backed  on  to  Paul's  study  door,  turned  the 
handle,  and  disappeared. 


THE  REVIVAL  411 

The  hall  was  in  dar'  ness  again.  Maggie  stumbled  her  way  to- 
wards the  eta.rcase  tl.en.  seeing  Grace's  terrified  eyes,  filled  with 
a  horror  that  she,  Maggie  Cardinal,  should  cause  anv  one  to  Took 
her  bldroom       '  ""*  '^'"■"sily  upstairs,  shutting  herself  into 

During  the  next  fortnight  the  dominant  element  in  the  situa- 
tion was  Grace's  terror  Skeaton  was  already  beginning  to  forget 
ho  story  of  the  su.c.de.  Maggie  was  marked  for  ever  now  as 
queer  and  strange."  but  Paul  was  not  blamed;  he  was  rather, 
pitied  and  evrn  liked  the  more.  But  Grace  could  not  forget 
Maggie  in  ended  perhaps  to  murder  her  in  revenge  for  her  unci's 
death;  well,  then,  she  must  be  murdered.  ...  She  would  not 
eave  her  brother.  She  could  not  consider  the  future.  She  kiiew 
that  she  could  not  live  in  the  same  house  with  Maggie  for  long 
but  she  would  not  go  and  Maggie  would  not  go.  .  .  .  What  was 
to  happen  ? 

Poor  Grace  the  tortures  that  she  suffered  during  those  weeks 
will  not  be  understood  by  persons  with  self-confidence  and  a  hearty 
contempt  for  superstition.  ^ 

She  paid  the  penalty  now  for  the  ghosts  of  her  childhood-and 
no  one  could  help  her. 

Maggie  saw  that  Paul  was,  with  every  day,  increasingly  un- 
l.r^"  %^^  hod  never  been  trained  to  conceal  his  feelings,  .^nd 
although  he  tried  now  he  succeeded  very  badly.  He  would  come 
into  her  room  in  the  early  morning  hours  and  lie  down  beside  her 
He  would  put  his  arms  around  her  and  kiss  her.  and.  desperatelv 
as  though  he  were  doing  it  for  a  wager,  make  love  to  her.  She 
felt,  desperate  also  on  her  side,  that  she  could  comfort  and  make 
him_happ.y,  if  only  he  would  want  something  less  from  her  than 
passion.  But  always  after  an  hour  or  a  little  more,  he  crept  away 
again  to  his  own  room,  disappointed,  angered,  frustrated  These 
hours  were  the  stranger  because,  during  the  day,  he  showed  her 
nothing  of  this  mood,  but  was  kindly  and  friendly  and  distant 

She  would  have  done  anything  for  him;  she  tried  sometim»s  to 
be  affectionate  to  him,  but  always,  at  once,  he  turned  upon  her  with 
a  hungry,  impassioned  look.  .    .    . 

She  knew,  without  any  kind  of  doubt,  that  the  only  way  that  she 
could  make  him  happy  again  was  to  leave  him.  His  was  not  a 
nature  to  brood,  for  the  rest  o{  his  days,  on  something  that  he  had 
lost. 

Onl.v  once  did  he  make  any  allusion  to  the  coming  Revival  serv- 
1™'-  He  burst  out  one  day,  at  luncheon:  "The  most  scandalous 
thing!     he  said.    "We  had  them  here  once,  years  ago   and  the 


412 


THE  CAPTIVES 


harm  they  did  no  one  would  believe.  I've  been  to  Tamar  about  it; 
he  can  do  nothing,  unless  they  disturb  tlie  public  peace,  of  course. 
He  had  the  impertinence  to  tell  me  that  they  behaved  very  well 
last  time  they  were  here!  " 

"  I  don't  like  that  man,"  said  Grace.  "  I  don't  believe  he  makes 
his  money  properly.  Look  at  the  clothes  Mrs.  Tamar  wears !  What 
I  mean  is,  I  don't  like  his  wife  at  all." 

"  It's  very  hard,"  said  Paul,  his  voice  trembling  with  indigna- 
tion, "  that  when  men  and  women  have  been  working  for  years  to 
bring  Christ  into  the  hearts  of  mankind  that  mountebanks  and 
hypocrites  should  be  allowed  to  undo  the  work  in  the  space  of  ii 
night  I  know  this  man  Thurston.  They've  had  letters  in  the 
Church  Times  about  him." 

"  Fancy!  "  said  Grace,  "  and  still  he  dares  show  his  face." 

"But  do  they  really  do  so  much  harm!"  asked  Maggie.  "I 
should  have  thought  if  they  only  came  once  for  a  week  in  ten 
years  they  couldn't  make  any  real  effect  on  anybody " 

"  Maggie,  dear,"  said  Paul  gently,  "  you  don't  understand." 

As  the  day  of  the  Revival  approached,  Maggie  knew  that  she 
would  go  to  one  of  the  services.  She  was  now  in  a  strange  state 
of  excitement.  The  shock  of  her  uncle's  death  had  undoubtedly 
shaken  her  whole  balnnce,  moral,  physical,  and  mental.  The  fort- 
night that  had  followed  it,  when  she  had  clung  like  a  man  falling 
from  a  height  and  held  by  a  rocky  ledge  to  the  one  determination 
not  to  look  either  behind  or  in  front  of  her,  had  been  a  strain  be- 
yond her  strength. 

She  did  not  know;  she  did  not  feel  any  weakness:  she  felt  rather 
a  curious  atmosphere  of  light  and  expectation  as  though  that  cry 
to  Martin  in  her  bedroom  had  truly  been  answered.  And  she  felt 
more  than  this.  Old  Magnus  had  once  said  to  her:  "  I  don't  know 
what  religion  is  except  that  it  is  a  fight — and  some  people  join  in 
because  they  want  to,  some  are  forced  to  join  in  whether  they 
want  to  or  no,  some  just  leave  it  alone,  and  some  (most)  don't 
know  there's  one  going  on  at  all.  But  if  you  don't  join  in  you 
seem  to  me  to  have  wasted  your  time." 

She  had  not  understood  in  the  least  what  he  meant;  she  did  not 
understand  now;  but,  thinking  of  his  words,  it  did  seem  to  her 
that  she  was  sharing  in  some  conflict.  The  vast  armies  hidden 
from  her  by  mist,  the  contested  ground  also  hidden,  but  the  clash 
of  arms  clearly  to  be  heard.  Her  own  part  of  a  struggle  seemed 
to  be  round  her  love  for  Mo-tin;  it  was  as  though,  if  she  could 
get  some  realisation  of  that,  she  would  have  won  her  way  to  a 
vantage-point  whence  she  could  visualise  the  next  place.    She  did 


THE  REVIVAL 


418 


not  think  this  out.  She  only  felt  in  her  heart  a  little  less  lonely,  a 
little  less  wicked  and  seltish,  a  little  less  deserted,  as  though  she 
were  drawing  nearer  to  some  I'iddon  tire  and  could  feel  the  first 
warm  shadow  of  the  flames. 

She  made  nno  more  appeai  to  Grace  on  the  very  morning  of  the 
first  day  of  the  Kevivnl. 

After  breakfast  Mappie  came  into  the  drawing-room  end  found 
Grace  sitting  there  sewing. 

She  stood,  tinii<lly,  in  her  old  attitude*  her  hands  clasped  in  front 
of  her,  like  a  child  saying  her  lesson. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Grace." 

Grace  looked  up.  She  had  of  course  been  conscious  of  Maggie 
ever  since  her  entrance  into  the  room.  Her  hands  had  trembled 
and  her  heart  leapt  furiously. 

"Wh;*.  Maggie "  she  said. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  disturbing  you,'*  said  Maggie,  "but  we  haven't 
really  said  anything  to  one  another  for  the  last  fortnight.  I  don't 
suppose  that  you  want  me  to  say  anything  now.  but  things  get 
worse  and  worse  if  no  o.ie  says  anything,  don't  they?"  Now  that 
she  had  begun  she  went  on  quickly:  "  I  wanted  to  say,  Grace,  how 
sorry  I  am  for  the  trouble  and  unhappiness  that  you  and  Paul 
have  had  during  the  last  fortnight  through  me.  I've  been  nothing 
but  a  trouble  to  you  since  I  first  came  here,  but  it  wasn't  that 
that  I  wanted  to  say.  I  couldn't  bear  that  you  should  think  that 
I  WPS  just  selfishly  full  of  my  own  affairs  and  didn't  understand 
how  you  and  Paul  must  feel  about — about  my  uncle.  Not  that  I 
mean,"  she  went  on  rather  fiercely,  raising  her  head,  "  that  he  was 
to  blame.  No  one  ever  understood  him.  He  could  have  done  great 
things  if — if — some  one  had  looked  after  him  a  little.  But  he 
hadn't  any  one.  That  was  my  fault.  I  didn't  want  you  and  Paul 
to  think  I  don't  blame  myself.  I  do  all  the  time.  I  can't  promise 
to  be  better  in  the  future  because  I've  promised  so  often  and  I 
never  am,    But  I  am  sorry." 

Grace  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Her  hands  trembled  more 
than  ever.  Then,  without  looking  up,  she  murmured  as  though  to 
her  sewing: 

"  Oh  no,  Maggie  ...  no  one  blames  you.  Fm  sure." 

There  was  another  pause,  then  Grace  said: 

"I  think  I*m  not  well.  No,  I  can*t  be  well  because  I'm  not 
sleeping,  although  IVe  taken  aspirin  more,  I'm  sure,  than  T  ought 
to.  WTiat  I  mean  is  that  they  say  it's  bad  for  your  heart.  Of 
course  things  have  been  very  unfortunate,  from  the  beginning  one 
might  say,  but  I'm  sure  it's  not  been  any  one's  fault  exactly.    What 


414 


THE  CAPTIVES 


No,  they  aren't  really. 


I  mean  is  that  these  things  nerer  are. 
I  expect  we  all  want  a  change." 
"  What  are  you  frightened  of  me  for,  Grace,"  asked  Maggie 
Grace  started  us  though  Maggie  had  indeed  dropped  a  bomb  at 
her   feet.     She  looked    up   at  Maggie,   wildly,  her   eyes   starin,; 
about  the  room  as  though  she  were  looking  for  some  exit   of 
escape. 
"  Frightened  ? "  she  repeated. 

"Yes  you  are,"  said  Maggie.  "That's  what  worries  me  most. 
No  ones  ever  been  frightened  of  me  before-at  least  I  don't  think 
any  one  has.  Maggie  laughed.  "  Why,  Grace,  it  seems  so  funny 
any  one  being  frightened  of  me.  I  couldn't  hurt  any  one  if  I 
wanted  to,  nnd  I'm  sure  T  never  want  to  unless  it's  Mrs  Maxse 
He  angry  with  mc  as  much  as  you  like,  Grace,  but  don't  be  fright- 
ened of  me.    Why,  that's  ridiculous!" 

It  was  the  worst  word  to  have  chosen.  Grace  flushed  a  dull  un- 
wholesome purple. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  think  me  ridiculous.  Maggie,"  she  said.  "  Per- 
haps I  am.  I  m  sure  I  don't  know.  Yes.  perhaps  I  am.  What  I 
mean  is  that  what's  ridiculous  to  one  is  not  ridiculous  to  another. 
You  re  a  strange  girl.  Maggie,  and  you  and  I  will  never  get  on. 
No,  never.  But  all  I  ask  is  that  you  should  make  Paul  happy. 
That  13  enough  for  me.  I  care  for  nothing  else.  He  isn't  very 
happy  just  now.  What  I  mean  is  that  any  one  can  see  he  isn't 
eating  his  meals  properly." 

"  Oh  Grace,'-  cried  Maggie.  "  I  didn't  mean  that  you  were  ridicu- 
lous. I  meant  that  any  one  being  frightened  of  me  was  ridiculous. 
An.vway  Im  very  sorry  that  I've  made  you  and  Paul  unhappy. 
That  3  all."  *^  ' 

She  turned  and  went. 

It  was  the  most  lovely  of  April  days,  soft,  primrose-coloured, 
the  sea-breeze  gently  tempered  by  mist-veiled  sun.  Maggie  sat  at 
her  bedroom  window  overlooking  the  drive  and  the  blue-grey  field 
that  ran  to  the  woods.  She  knew  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
about  her  escape  to  the  Revival  meeting.  Paul  had  arranged  that 
there  should  be  an  evening  service  at  the  Church  at  the  same  hour 
an  act  of  rather  Un-Christian  defiance.  Maggie  sat  there,  looking 
down  in  a  condition  of  strange  bewildering  excitement  on  tr  the 
laurel  bushes.  It  was  wonderful  to  think  that  in  another  half-hour 
she  would  see  Miss  Avies  once  more,  hear  those  wild  hymns  again 
catch  the  stridency  of  Thurston's  voice;  all  these  things  spoke  of 
ATartin.  She  felt  as  though  he  were  stealing  towards  her  out  of 
the  dusk.  It  was  as  though,  without  any  reason,  she  expected  to 


THE  REVIVAL  415 

findhim  at  the  .ervice  .   .   .  although  she  knew  that  he  could  not 

cpetd  ta'patca^r^m'^ne'r?  *\"''«-,*>-  '"«  tall-door 
oar-yin.  hi,  ^^^TZ  Tra.erto^^t^U^  ^r  t^tle^^  '',  T 
a  moment,  beside  the  hall-Hnnr  „=  ,h       i.  1  '^^  ^'°°'''  ^"^ 

behind  him.  ^'  "^  ""^  8:^'=  «"'"«.  screaming 

by  touring  Companies  Wanderfn^  f  I'  P'»™ ''«''«i°°»ll.v  used 
and  other  caaua^f^s  ivl  It  w»,  »  /."''/'"'"'"'''^  ^°°<^rt»' 
towards  the  end  of  the  plomenade      "'  "^^  '"  '"'  °'  ""«  '"- 

GRAND  RELIGIOUS  FESTIVAL. 

All  are  invited, 

IS  ALL  WELL  WITH  yoU.  BROTHER? 

anI^Tam"e7a:e7,:'gtr'  ItpCrf  ^°"*'""'"'^'  "■*  «'>«'- 
step,  into  the  Ha  1  Ma^girfeX  tt't  T'  *"''  '^'"''"''^"^  *" 
entered  the  building.  In Te  ves  bule  tl  "'"V"!  "P""  •■"• 
black  bonnets  handled  papers  wtWrs^a^rh'lT         '" 

rr'wenfrVhfau'd-:' "  ^^  - --<>  irfit^oHz 

rated  with  silver  stars  and  pink  n  ke"i  ohe,rs      ThT^^ 
«Pon  .t  a  table,  some  chairs,  and  a  readinSdraJe'^ifc^im  ^n 


416 


THE  CAPTIVES 


cloth.  Below  the  stage  was  a  email  orchestra,  consisting  of  two 
tiddlcs,  a  cornel,  drum,  and  a  piano.  There  was  also  what  seemed 
to  2dai;gie  a  small  choir,  some  women  dressed  in  white  and  some 
men  in  black  coats  and  white  bow  tics.  Acrosa  the  stase  were  sus- 
pended broad  white  bands  of  cloth  with  "  Come  to  Jesus!  "  '*  Come 
now  !  "  "  He  is  waitint;  I'or  you !  "  iii  big  black  letters. 

The  hall  seemed  very  full,  and  was  violently  illuminated  with 
electric  light.  Maggie  took  this  in  as  she  stood  very  timidly  just 
inside  the  door.  A  steward  come  forward  and  showed  her  a  corner- 
seat.  She  saw,  then,  with  a  dramatic  flash  of  recognition,  Thurs- 
ton and  Mr.  Crashaw  sitting  behind  the  taMe;  then,  with  a  still 
stranger  emotion,  Jliss  Avies  as  one  of  the  white-robed  choir.  The 
sight  of  those  three  familiar  faces  seemed  to  close,  finally  and  defi- 
nitely, the  impression  that  she  had  had  during  all  those  last  weeks. 
They  had  "  got "  her  again,  and  yet  not  they,  but  the  power  behind 
them.  It  seemed  only  five  minutes  ago  that  she  had  sat  in  the 
London  Chapel  and  heard  old  Crashaw  scream  "Punishment! 
Punishment!  Punishment!"  She  turned  half  in  her  seat  as 
though  she  expected  to  see  Aunt  Anne  and  Aunt  Elizabeth  sitting 
one  on  either  side  of  her.  She  looked  at  Thurston;  he  had 
coarsened  very  much  since  she  had  seen  him  last.  lie  was  fatter, 
his  cheeks  stained  with  an  unnaturally  high  colour,  bis  eyes 
brighter  and  sharper  and  yet  sensual  too.  He  was  smarter  than 
he  had  been,  his  white  bow  tie  stiff  and  shapely,  his  cuffs  clean 
and  shining,  his  hair  very  carefully  brushed  back  from  his  high  and 
bony  forehead.  His  sharp  eyes  darted  all  over  the  building,  and 
Maggie  felt  as  though  at  any  moment  ahe  would  be  discovered. 
Crashaw  looked  more  like  a  decrepit  monkey  than  ever,  huddled  up 
in  his  chair,  his  back  bow-shaped.  He  breathed  into  his  hands  as 
though  he  wanted  to  warm  them,  and  looked  at  nobody.  Miss 
Avies  Maggie  could  not  see  clearly. 

Her  eyes  wandered  over  the  audience.  She  saw  many  towns- 
people whom  she  knew,  and  she  realised,  for  the  first  time,  that  to- 
morrow everywhere  it  would  he  said  that  the  Rector's  wife  had  been 
at  the  Revival  meeting. 

And  how  different  an  audience  from  the  old  London  one.  Every 
one  had  come  on  this  occasion  to  see  a  show,  and  it  was  certainly 
a  show  that  they  were  going  to  see.  Maggie  had  entered  during  a 
pause,  and  all  the  faces  that  were  there  wore  that  look  of  expecta- 
tion that  demands  the  rising  of  the  curtain.  Soon,  Maggie  felt, 
they  would  stamp  and  whistle  did  the  play  not  begin. 

Thurston  rose  and  announced: 

"  My  brothers,  we  will  sing  hymn  No.  14  on  the  paper." 


THE  REVIVAL 


417 


Uaggie  looked  and  discovered  that  it  wa<  the  hymn  that  had 
once  moved  her  so  dramatically  in  London  with  tho  word* 

By  all  Thy  sores  and  bloody  pain 
Come  do*vn  and  heal  our  sins  again. 

and  with  the  last  refrain : 

By  the  blood,  by  the  blood,  by  the  blood  of  the  Iamb 
We  beseech  Tht  \ 

Already,  in  spite  of  herself,  in  spite  of  her  consciousness  of  the 
melodrama  ond  meretricious  glitter  of  the  scene,  her  heart  was 
beating.  She  was  more  deeply  moved,  even  now.  than  she  had 
ever  been  by  all  tho  strvicos  of  the  Skcaton  Church. 

And  Thurston  had  learnt  his  job  by  this  time.  Softly  ono  of 
the  violins  played  the  tunc.    Then  Thurston  said: 

"  The  first  verse  of  this  hymn  will  be  sung  by  the  choir  alone. 
The  congregation  is  asked  to  stand  and  then  to  join  in  tho  second 
verse.    The  fourth  verse  will  be  sung  by  the  soloist." 

The  audience  rose.  There  was  a  hush  of  expectation  throughout 
the  building.  The  choir,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  fiddlers 
alone,  sang  the  first  verse.  They  had  been  well  selected  and  trained. 
Thurston  obviously  spared  no  expense.  For  the  second  verse,  tho 
whole  orchestra  combined,  the  drum  booming  through  the  refrain. 
At  first  the  congregation  was  timid,  but  the  tune  was  simple  and 
attractive.  The  third  verse  was  sung  by  every  one,  and  Maggie 
found  herself,  almost  against  her  will,  joining  in.  At  the  fourth 
verse  there  was  again  the  hush  of  expectation,  then  a  aoprauo,  thin 
and  clear,  accompanied  again  by    ne  violin,  broke  the  silence. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  this  was  very  moving.  Men  and  women 
sat  down  at  the  hymn's  close  quite  visibly  affected. 

Thurston  got  up  then  and  read  a  lesson  from  the  Bible.  He 
read  from  the  Revelations: 

"  After  this  I  looked,  and,  behold,  a  door  was  opened  in  heaven : 
and  the  first  voice  which  I  hoard  was  as  it  were  of  a  trumpet  talk- 
ing with  me;  which  said.  Come  up  hither,  and  I  will  shew  thee 
things  which  must  be  hereafter. 

And  immediately  I  was  in  the  Spirit :  and,  behold,  a  throne  was 
set  in  heaven,  and  one  sat  on  the  throne. 

And  he  that  sat  was  to  look  upon  like  a  jasper  and  a  sardine 
stone:  and  there  was  a  rainbow  round  about  the  throne,  in  sight 
like  unto  an  emerald. 


418  THE  CAPTIVES 

And  round  about  the  throne  were  four  and  twenty  "eata:  and 
upon  the  .eat.  1  .aw  (our  and  twenty  elder,  .itting,  clothed  in 
white  raiment;  and  they  had  on  their  head,  crown,  of  gold. 

ThurHton  had  worked  hard  during  these  la.t  year.,  bo  hnd  i.n- 
mensely  improved  hi.  accent,  and  hi.  h'.  were  all  lu  their  right 
nlacc.  Ho  read  very  drumutieally,  dropping  hi.  voice  to  a  whi.per. 
then  pausing  and  .taring  in  front  of  him  a.  ti.ough  he  .aw  Ood 
only  a  few  yard.  away.  The  people  of  Skeaton  had  had  few  op- 
portunitie.  of  any  fir.t-cla..  dramatic  entertainment.  When 
Thurston  finished  there  passed  through  the  building  a  wave  of  ex- 
citement, a  stir,  a  faint  murmur.  An  old  woman  next  to  Maggie 
wiped  her  eye..    "  Lovely !  "  Maggie  heard  her  whisper.       Lovely  1 

They  song,  then,  another  hymn,  accompanied  by  the  orchestra, 
Thi.  was  a  dramatic  hymn  with  a  fiery  martial  tune: 

The  Lord  of  War  lie  comcth  down 

With  Sword  and  Shield  and  Armour  Bright, 

Hi.  armies  all  behind  him  Frown, 

Who  can  withstand  Hii  Light) 

Cfci.TM.      Trumpets  Blare, 

The  drum-tap    I  ■  D 
Prepare  to  meet  'Ihy  Ood, 
Oh  Soul! 
Prepare!    Prepare! 

Prepare  to  meet  Thy  God,  oh  Soul! 

Never  before  had  the  men  and  women  of  Skeaton  heard  such 
hymns.  The  Revival  of  ten  years  ago,  lacking  the  vibrant  .pint 
of  Mr  John  Thurston,  bad  been  a  very  different  affair.  This  was 
something  quite  new  in  all  Skeaton  experience  ,^,^tVZ'lu 
tion  flamed  now  in  every  ere.  Maggie  could  feel  that  the  old 
woman  next  to  her  was  trembling  all  over. 

Thurston  announced:  ^^ 

"  Brother  Crashaw  will  now  deliver  an  address. 
Brother  Crashaw,  his  head  still  lowered,  very  slowly  got  up  from 
his  seat.  He  moved  as  though  it  were  only  with  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty and  power  of  self-will  that  his  reluctant  body  could  be  com- 
pelled into  action.  He  crept  rather  than  walked  from  his  chair 
to  the  reading-desk,  then  very  very  painfully  climbed  on  to  the 
high  rlatform.  Magpie,  watching  him,  remembered  that  earlier 
time  when  he  had  climbed  into  just  such  another  desk  She  re- 
membered also  that  day  at  her  aunts'  house  when  he  had  flirted 


THE  REVIVAL 


419 


with  Caroline  ami  «hown  himaolf  qxiitii  another  Brother  Cra?.liiiw. 
He  hod  aged  (tnatly  since  then.  Ho  aecmcd  now  to  Lo  aearcely  a 
man  at  aJI.  Then  auddenly,  with  a  jcrlt,  aa  thouffh  a  string  had 
been  pulled  from  behind,  ho  raised  hia  face  and  looked  at  tlium  nil. 
Yc»,  that  was  alive.  Monkey's  mark  you  might  call  it,  but  tlia 
eyea  behind  tho  yellow  lids  flamed  and  blazed.  No  oxaggorntiun 
those  words.  A  veritable  fire  burned  there,  a  fire,  it  might  ix',  of 
mere  physieal  irritation  and  savngo  exasperation  at  the  too-rapid 
crumbling  of  the  wilfully  disobedient  body,  a  glory,  perhujis,  of 
obstinate  pride  and  conceit,  a  fire  of  superstition  and  crass  igno- 
rance, but  a  fire  to  lie  doubted  of  no  mnn  who  looked  upon  it. 

When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  harsher,  angrier,  more  insulting 
than  it  had  been  before.  He  spoke,  too,  in  a  hurry,  tumbling  his 
words  one  upon  another  as  though  he  were  afraid  that  he  had 
little  mortal  time  left  to  him  and  must  make  the  most  of  what 
he  had  got. 

From  the  first  ho  was  angry,  rntin.ij  the  men  of  Skeaton  as  they 
had  never  been  rated  before.  And  they  liked  it.  They  even  revelled 
in  it;  it  did  them  no  horm  and  at  the  same  time  tickled  their 
skins.  Sometimes  a  preneher  at  the  Methodist  Chapel  hod  rated 
them,  but  how  mild  and  halting  a  scolding  compared  with  the  fury 
of  this  little  man.  As  he  continued  they  settled  into  their  seats 
with  the  conviction  that  this  wos  the  best  free  show  that  tliey  had 
ever  e.;joyed  in  all  their  lives.  They  hod  been  ofraid  at  first  that 
it  would  not  keep  up  its  interest.  They  had  ngreed  with  oiii.>  an- 
other that  they  would  go  in  "just  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  see 
what  it  was  like."  Now  they  were  willing  that  it  should  continue 
all  night. 

"  What  came  ye  out  for  to  see?"  ho  screamed  at  them.  "  Came 
out  to  see?  Ye  didn't  come  out  at  all.  None  of  you.  That's  what 
I've  come  to  tell  you.  For  years  you've  been  leading  your  I;izy, 
idle,  self-indulgent  lives,  eating  and  drinking,  sleeping,  fornicat- 
ing, lying  with  your  neighbours'  wives,  buying  and  selling,  living 
like  hogs  and  swine.  And  is  it  for  wont  of  your  being  told  i  Not 
a  bit  of  it.  You  are  warned  again  and  again  and  ogain.  Every 
day  gives  you  signs  and  wonders  hod  you  got  eyes  to  aee  them 
and  you  will  not  see.  Well,  be  it  on  your  own  heads.  Why  should 
I  care  for  your  miserable,  shrivelled-up,  parched  little  souls?  Why 
should  I  care  when  I  watch  you  all,  with  your  hanging  stomachs 
and  your  double  chins,  marching  straight  into  such  a  hell  as 
you've  never  conceived  of.  I  know  what's  coming  to  you.  I  know 
what's  in  store  for  those  well-filled  stomachs  of  yours.  I  can  see 
you  writhing  and  -■  -earning  and  wailing,  '  Why  didn't  somebody 


'420 


THE  ('APTIVES 


tell  mi  Why  didn't  tomcbody  tpll  uil'  Somebody  hii  told  you. 
botncbody'ii  IcIliiiK  you  now.  And  will  you  li'.lent  Not  •  bit  of  it. 
You'll  hBvo  liciird  tbo  mu»ic  to-nigbt,  tho  drumt  and  the  trumpcti, 
yoii'U  havu  joined  in  the  linging,  and  to-night  you'll  go  back  and 
loll  your  friinda;  'Yea,  wo  had  a  fine  evening.  You  ought  to  go. 
It'i  worth  while  and  coata  you  nothing.'  And  to-morrow  you  will 
have  forgotten  tvcrything.  But  I  tell  you  that  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  tliii  building  itanda  in  an  dcaporato  peril  ai  though  bia 
houao  was  on  fire  over  bia  head  and  there  waa  no  way  out." 

Ho  stopped  for  a  moment  to  get  breath,  leaning  forward  over 
the  desk  and  panting.  Over  the  building  there  waa  a  great  nilencc. 
Mnggie  waa  atirrcd  beyond  any  earlier  experience.  She  did  not 
know  whether  he  were  charlatan  or  no.  She  did  not  care.  She 
had  lived  for  more  than  two  years  in  Skcaton,  where  everything 
and  every  one  waa  dead.  Now  here  waa  life.  The  evidence  of  it 
reassured  her,  whispering  to  her  that  Martin  still  lived,  that  be 
could  bo  found,  even  that  he  waa  coming  to  her.  Her  nervoua 
excitement  increased.  Tho  emotion  of  the  people  around  her,  the 
hands,  the  ainging,  all  aeemed  to  cry  to  her,  «  He  ia  coming!  He 
is  coming  I  Uo  is  coming!"  ...  but  it  waa  Martin  now  and 
not  God. 

Old  Crashaw,  having  recovered  hie  breath,  went  on ;  he  continued 
for  some  time  to  abuse  them  all,  screaming  and  beating  the  wooden 
desk  with  his  fists— then  suddenly  be  changed,  bia  voice  softened, 
his  eyes  were  milder,  there  waa  something  wistful  and  pathetic  in 
his  old  ugly  yellow  face. 

"  I  know  that  you  came  in  here  to-night,  all  of  you,  just  as  you 
might  into  a  picture-house  or  a  theatre.  Entrance  free.  Well, 
then,  why  not!  Had  we  charged  half-a-crown  there  wouldn't  have 
been  one  of  you.  Half-a-crown  and  the  most  important  thing  in 
life.  I  aay  the  moat  important— I  say  the  only  important  thing  in 
life.  A  man's  soul,  its  history  and  growth.  What  do  you  know 
of  the  soul,  you  ask  me?  How  do  you  know  there  is  one?  Well. 
I  can  only  tell  you  my  news.  If  a  man  comes  into  your  town  and 
tells  you  that  there  is  an  army  marching  down  upon  it  to  destroy 
it  he  may  be  true  or  he  may  not.  If  he  is  true  then,  when  you 
don't  listen  to  him  you  are  doomed.  If  you  do  listen  the  prepa- 
rntion  to  meet  that  army  will  at  ony  rate  do  you  no  harm  even 
Ihmigh  the  army  doesn't  exist. 

"  I  tell  you  that  the  Soul  exists,  that  God  exists,  and  that  one 
•lay  God  and  the  Soul  will  meet.  You  say  that  hasn't  been  profed, 
nnd  until  it  is  proved  you  will  spend  your  time  over  other  tbin.is 
that  you  know  to  be  true.    Try  it  at  least,  give  it  a  chance.    Why 


THE  REVIVAL 


421 


DOtt  You  giro  other  tbinga  •  chnnce,  marriage,  <liK'tor^.  trmlun, 
•muwmvlita.  Why  iiut  the  Soul)  Uon't  liKteu  to  uii.v  i.ii.'  kMi 
deflnition  of  religion.  Don't  lielivvo  in  it,  Malco  your  uwn.  I'lml 
Dill  for  vournolf.  My  children,  I  am  an  old  man.  I  am  »horlly  to 
die.  If  I  havo  acoldcd  forttivo  me.  Let  mu  Ibbvu  with  .vdu  my 
bli'aaing,  and  my  earncat  prayer  that  you  will  not  |)i\*<  hy'doU  on 
tho  other  aide.  The  day  will  come  when  you  cannot  [ium  Him  liy. 
Meet  Uim  firat  of  your  own  accord  and  then  when  that  other  day 
comea  Ho  will  know  you  aa  a  friend.  ..." 

Tho  old  man'a  voice  faltercil,  failed,  «top|K.d.  lie  hitnself  seemed 
to  be  deeply  affected.  Waa  it  iiclingf  Maggie  could  not  tell.  At 
any  rate  he  waa  '•Id  and  ill  nnd  very  Bhorll,v  to  die.  .    .    . 

Tho  woman  next  her  was  crying  rubMng  the  knuckles  of  her 
ababby  old  glorca  in  her  eyes,  tho  bugle*  on  her  bonnet  shaking 
like  lire  thinga. 

She  anulBed  through  her  nose  to  Maggie  "  Beautiful— beautiful 
—I  'aven't  'eard  such  preaching  since  I  don't  know  when." 

Thuraton  again  rose. 

"  A  aolo  will  now  bo  sung,"  he  soid.  "  After  the  singing  of  tho 
aolo  there  will  be  a  prayer  offenul,  then  a  procesnion,  headed  by 
the  choir,  will  be  formed  to  march,  with  lanterns,  thniURh  the  town, 
as  a  witnesa  to  the  glory  of  C!od,  It  is  hoped  that  those  of  the 
congregation  who  have  received  comfort  and  help  during  this  serv- 
ico  will  join  in  the  procession.  There  vpill  bo  a  collection  for  tho 
expensea  of  the  Mission  at  the  door." 

Maggie  watching  him  wondered.  Of  what  waa  ho  thinking  J 
Wos  there  any  truth  in  him?  Had  he,  perhaps,  behinil  the  sham 
display  and  advertisement  that  ho  had  been  building  felt  some- 
thing stirring?  Waa  he  conscious,  against  his  own  will,  of  his 
falsehood?  Had  he.  while  building  only  his  own  success,  made  a 
discov       ^  ked  at  him.    The  dromatic  mask  hid  him  from 

her.    ■'  .0    .    ■  11  what  he  was. 

Th-    M  - md  sung  a  verse  of  the  hymn  earlier  in  tho 

evening,  now  undertook  "  Hear  my  Prayer."  Very  beautifully  she 
sang  it. 


"  Hear  my  prayer. 
Oh,  God,  incline  Thine  eor, 
Thyself  from  my  distresses 
do  not  hide.  ,    .   ." 

The  voice  rose,  sooring  through  the  building  to  meet  the  sUver 
stars  and  the  naked  cherubs  on  the  ceiling. 


422 


THE  CAPTIVES 

"The  enemy  sbouteth  .   . 
The  enemy  shouteth  .   . 


Skeaton  sat  enraptured.    Women  let  the  tears  stream  down  their 
faces,  men  blew  their  noses. 
Once  again  the  voice  arose. 

"  Hear  my  prayer, 
Oh,  God,  incline  Thine  ear.  .   .   ." 

It  was  Maggie's  voice,  Maggie's  cry.  From  the  very  heart  of  the 
charlatanism  she  cried  out,  appealing  to  a  God  who  might  exist 
or  no,  she  could  not  tell,  but  who  seemed  now  to  be  leading  her  by 
the  hand.  She  saw  Aunt  Anne  at  St.  Dreot's  whispering  "  The 
Lord  is  my  Shepherd.    He  shall  lead  me.  .    .    ." 

In  a  dream  she  shared  in  the  rest  of  the  ceremony.  In  a  dream 
she  passed  with  the  others  out  of  the  building.  The  sea  air  blew 
about  her;  down  the  promenade  she  could  see  the  people,  she  could 
see  the  silver  stars  in  the  sky,  the  faint  orange  light  of  the  lanterns, 
the  dim  stretch  of  the  sand,  and  then  the  grey  sea.  She  heard  the 
splash  and  withdrawal  of  the  tide,  the  murmur  of  many  voices,  the 
singing  of  the  distant  hymn,  the  blare  of  the  trumpet. 

Strange  and  mysterious,  the  wind  blowing  through  it  all  like  a 
promise  of  beauty  and  splendour  to  come.  ... 

She  turned  in  the  starlit  dark,  separated  herself  from  the  crowd, 
and  hurried  home.  ,  ..         ou 

Tn  the  hall  on  the  table  under  the  lamp  she  saw  a  letter,  hhe 
saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  her  and  that  the  writing  was  Amy 
Warlock's.  Before  she  picked  it  up  she  stood  there  listening. 
The  house  was  very  still.  Grace  and  Paul  had  probably  begun 
supper.    She  picked  up  the  letter  and  went  up  to  her  bedroom. 

As  though  she  were  scanning  something  that  she  had  already 
seen,  she  read: 

I  made  you  a  promise  and  I  will  now  fulfil  it. 

My  brother,  Martin,  arrived  in  London  three  days  ago.  He  is 
staying  at  No.  13a  Lynton  Street,  King's  Cross. 

I  have  seen  him  but  he  has  told  me  that  he  does  not  wish  to  see 
me  Egain.  He  is  very  ill;  his  heart  is  bad  and  his  lungs  are 
affected.  He  has  also  spent  all  his  money.  I  mentioned  your  name 
but  he  did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  interested.  I  think  it  fair  to  tell 
you  this  lest  you  should  have  a  fruitless  journey.  I  have  now  kept 
my  promise  to  you,  unwisely  perhaps.  Amy  Wahlock. 


THE  REVIVAL 


423 


Maggie  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  considered.  There  was  a  train 
at  10.30  reaching  London  about  midnight  She  could  juat  catch 
it  if  she  were  quick.  She  found  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper 
and  wrote : 

Dear  Paul — I  have  to  go  to  London  suddenly  on  very  urgent 
business.    I  will  write  to  you  from  there.    Good-bye.         Magoie. 

She  propped  this  up  against  the  looking-glass.  She  put  a  few 
things,  including  the  box  with  Martin's  letters  and  the  ring  into  a 
little  bag,  put  on  her  hat  and  coat  and  went  downstairs.  She 
waited  for  a  moment  in  the  hall  but  there  was  no  sound  anywhere. 

She  went  out  down  the  dark  drive. 

As  she  passed  along  the  lonely  road  she  heard  the  gate,  scream- 
ing faintly,  behind  her. 


PART  IV 
THE  JOURNEY  HOME  AGAIN 


!   '1: 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  DARK   BOOM 

IT  was  after  midnight  when  Moggie  was  turned  out  on  to  the 
long  grim  platform  of  the  London  station.  On  that  other 
London  arrival  (.i  hers  the  terminus  had  been  a  boiling  cauldron 
of  roar  and  rattle.  Now  eTervthing  was  dead  and  asleep.  No 
trains  moved;  they  slept,  ancient  monsters,  chained  down  with 
dirt  and  fog.  Two  or  three  porters  crept  slothfully  as  though  hyp- 
notised. The  face  of  the  great  clock,  golden  in  the  dusk,  domi- 
nated, like  a  heathen  god,  the  dccne.  Maggie  asked  a  porter  the 
way  to  the  Station  Hotel.  He  showed  her;  she  climbed  stairs, 
pushed  back  swintr  doors,  trod  oil-clothed  passages,  and  arrived  at 
a  tired  young  woman  who  told  her  that  she  could  have  a  room. 

Arrived  there,  herself  somnambulistic,  she  flung  off  her  clothes, 
crept  into  bed,  and  was  instantly  asleep. 

Next  morning  she  kept  to  her  room;  she  went  down  the  long 
dusty  stairs  before  one  o'clock  because  she  was  hungry,  and  she 
discovered  the  restaurant  and  had  a  meal  there;  but  all  the  time 
she  was  expecting  Martin  to  appear.  Every  step  seemed  to  be  his, 
every  voice  to  have  an  echo  of  his  touts.  Then  in  the  dusky  after- 
noon she  decided  that  she  would  be  cowardly  no  longer.  She 
started  off  on  her  search  for  No.  13a  Lynton  Street,  King's  Cross. 

She  searched  through  a  strange  blue  opaque  light  which  always 
afterwards  she  recollected  as  accompanying  her  with  mystery,  as 
though  it  followed  her  about  deliberately  veiling  her  from  the  rest 
of  the  world.  She  felt  different  from  them  all;  she  found  an 
omnibus  that  was  going  to  King's  Cross,  but  when  she  was  inside 
it  and  looked  at  the  people  around  her  she  felt  of  them  all  that  they 
had  no  reality  beside  the  intensity  of  her  own  search.  She,  hot  like 
a  fiery  coal,  existed  in  a  land  of  filmy  ghosts.  She  repeated  to 
herself  over  and  over,  "  No.  13a  Lynton  Street,  King's  Cross." 

She  got  out  opposite  the  huge  station  and  looked  about  her.  She 
saw  a  policeman  and  went  across  to  him. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  Lynton  Street  is,  please?"  she  asked 
him. 

He  smiled.  "  Yes,  miss.  Down  on  your  right,  then  first  to  your 
right  again." 

She  thanked  him  and  wanted  for  a  silly  moment  to  remain  with 
427 


428 


THE  CAPTIVES 


him.  She  wanted  to  stand  there  where  she  was,  on  the  island, 
she  couldn't  go  back,  she  was  afraid  to  go  forward.  Then  the 
moment  left  her  and  she  moved  on.  When  she  saw  Lynton  Street 
written  up  her  heart  gave  a  strange  little  whirr  and  then  tightened 
within  herself,  but  she  marched  on  and  found  13a.  A  dirty  house, 
pots  with  ferns  in  the  two  grimy  windows,  and  the  walla  streaky 
with  white  stains  against  the  grey.  The  door  was  ajar  and,  pul- 
ing it  a  little,  she  saw  a  servant-girl  on  her  knees  scrubbing  the 
floor.    At  the  noise  of  her  step  the  girl  looked  up. 

"Is  Mr.  Warlock  here?"  Haggle  asked,  but  the  words  were 
choked  in  her  throat. 

"  Wot  d'ye  sye? "  the  girl  asked. 

Maggie  repeated  her  question. 

«  Yes— 'e's  upstairs.    Always  is.    Fust  floor,  second  door  on  yer 

left " 

Maggie  went  up.  She  found  the  door.  She  knocked.  There 
was  no  answer.  She  pushed  the  door,  peered  through  and  looked  iJU 
She  saw  a  room  with  a  dirty  grimy  window,  a  broken  faded  red 
sofa,  a  deal  table.    No  one  there. 

She  entered  and  stood  listening.  A  door  beyond  her  opened  and 
a  man  came  in.  She  knew  at  once  that  it  was  Martin.  Hep 
thoughts  followed  one  another  in  strange  flurried  inconsequence. 
Yea,  it  was  Martin.  He  was  fatter  than  he  had  been— fat  and  ill. 
Very  ill.  His  face  was  pale,  his  hair,  thinner  than  before,  un- 
bruahed.  He  was  wearing  an  old  dirty  blue  suit  with  a  coat  that 
buttoned  over  the  waistcoat  like  a  seaman's  jacket.  Yes,  he  was 
ill  and  fat  and  unkempt,  but  it  was  Martin.  At  that  reiterated 
assurance  in  the  depths  of  her  soul  she  seemed  to  sink  into  a  mar- 
vellous certain  tranquillity— so  certain  that  she  shed,  as  it  were 
with  a  gesture,  all  the  unhappiness  and  doubt  and  desolation  with 
which  the  last  years  had  burdened  her.  .„    i. 

She  had  "  touched  "  Martin  again,  and  with  that  touch  she 
was  safe.  It  did  not  matter  how  he  treated  her  nor  whether  he 
wanted  her.  She  was  sane  and  happy  and  whole  again  as  she  had 
not  been  since  he  left  her. 

Meanwhile  he  looked  at  her  across  the  dark  room,  frowning. 

«  Who  is  it  ?"  he  asked.    "  What  do  you  want  ? " 

The  sound  of  his  voice  moved  her  passionately.  For  how  long 
she  had  ached  and  yearned  for  it!  He  spoke  more  huskily,  with  a 
thicker  tone  than  he  had  done,  but  it  was  the  same  voice,  rough  a 
little  and  slow. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Martin??  she  said,  laughing  for  sheer 
happiness.    She  saw  before  she  spoke  that  he  had  recognised  her. 


THE  DABK  ROOM 


429 


He  laid  nothing,  staring  at  her  across  the  table;  and  she,  held  by 
■ome  safe  instinct,  did  not  move  from  where  she  was. 

At  last  be  said: 

"Well.  .    .   .  What  do  you  want?" 

"Oh,  Martin,  don't  you  recognise  met    I'm  Maggie." 

He  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  know.  You  mustn't  come  here,  though. 
We've  Lathing  to  say  to  one  another  nowadays — no,  nothing."  lie 
didn't  look  at  her;  his  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  grimy  window. 

She  had  an  astonishing  sense  of  her  possession  of  him.  She 
laughed  and  came  close  to  the  table. 

"  I'm  not  going  away,  Martin  .  .  .  not  until  we're  had  a  talk. 
Nothing  can  make  me.    So  there  I " 

He  was  looking  at  her  again. 

"  Why,  you've  cut  your  hair  1 "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

Then  he  turned  roughly  right  round  upon  her  as  though  he 
meant  to  end  the  matter  once  and  for  all. 

"  Look  here  I  ...  I  do  mean  what  I  say "    He  was  cut  off 

then  by  a  fit  of  coughing.  He  leant  back  against  the  wall  and 
fought  with  it,  his  hand  against  his  chest.  She  made  no  move- 
ment and  said  no  word  while  the  attack  lasted. 

He  gasped,  recovering  his  breath,  then,  speaking  in  a  voice  lower 
than  before :  "  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  don't  want  you.  I  don't  want 
any  one.  There's  nothing  for  us  to  say  to  one  another.  It's  only 
waste  of  time." 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "That's  your  side  of  the  question. 
There's  also  mine.  Once  before  you  had  your  own  way  and  I  was 
very  miserable  about  it.  Now  it's  my  turn.  I'm  going  to  stay 
here  until  we've  talked." 

He  turned,  his  face  working  angrily,  upon  her. 

"  You  can't  stay  here.  It's  impossible.  What  do  you  do  it  for 
when  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  you?  First  my  sister  .  .  .  then 
you  .  .  .  come  here  spying.  Well,  now  you've  seen  what  it's  like, 
haven't  you?  Very  jolly,  isn't  it?  Very  handsome?  You'd  better 
go  away  again,  then.    You've  seen  all  you've  wanted  to." 

"  I'm  not  going  away,"  repeated  Maggie.  "  I  didn't  come  to  spy. 
You  know  that.  Of  course  you  can  turn  me  out,  but  you'll  have 
to  use  force." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  won't,"  he  answered.    "  There  are  other  ways." 

He  disappeared  into  the  other  room.  A  moment  later  he  re- 
turn' ^ ;  he  was  wearing  a  soft  black  hat  and  a  shabby  grey  over- 
cor  . 

"Yonll  get  tired  of  waiting,  I  expect,"  he  said,  and,  without 


480 


THE  CAPTIVES 


looking  at  her  but  juat  touching  her  ann  as  he  bniahed  pait  her, 
he  left  the  room.  She  heard  him  descend  the  stairs.  Then  the 
street-door  closed. 

She  sat  down  upon  the  shabby  red  sofa  and  looked  about  her. 
What  a  horrible  room  I  Its  darkness  was  tainted  with  a  creeping 
coldness  that  seemed  to  steal  in  wavering  gusts  from  wall  to  wall. 
The  carpet  was  faded  to  a  nondescript  colour  and  was  gashed  into 
torn  strips  near  the  fireploee.  No  pictures  were  on  the  walls  from 
which  the  wall-paper  was  peeling.  He  had  done  nothing  whatever 
to  make  it  more  habitable. 

He  must  have  been  staying  there  for  scverol  weeks,  and  yet 
there  were  no  signs  of  any  personal  belongings.  Nothing  of  him- 
self to  be  soonl  Nothing!  I'  was  as  though  in  the  bitterness  of 
his  spirit  he  had  said  that  he  would  not  touch  such  a  spot  save, 
of  necessity,  with  his  body.  It  should  remain,  so  far  aa  he  might 
go,  for  ever  tenon  tless. 

She  felt  that.  She  seemed  to  be  now  marvellously  perceptive. 
Until  an  hour  ago  she  had  been  lost,  ostracised;  now  she  was  at 
home  again,  clear  in  purpose,  afraid  of  no  one  and  of  nothing. 
Strangely,  although  his  sickness  both  of  body  and  soul  touched 
her  to  the  very  depths  oif  her  being,  her  predominant  sensation  was 
of  happiness.  She  had  found  him  again  1  Oh,  she  had  found  him 
again  I  Nothing,  in  this  world  or  the  next,  counted  in  comparison 
with  that.  If  she  were  close  to  him  she  would  make  him  well,  she 
would  make  him  rich,  she  would  make  him  happy.  Where  he  had 
been,  what  he  had  done,  mattered  nothing.  Where  she  had  been, 
what  she  had  done,  nothing.  Nothing  in  their  two  lives  counted 
but  their  meeting  again,  and  she  who  had  t'en  always  so  shy 
and  80  diffident  felt  no  doubt  at  all  about  his  returning  to  her. 
There  would  be  a  fight.  As  she  looked  around  the  gradually  dark- 
ening room  she  realised  thot.  It  might  be  a  long  fight  ond  a  di£S- 
cult  one,  but  that  she  would  win  she  hod  no  doubt.  It  had  been 
preordained  that  she  should  win.  No  one  on  this  earth  or  above  it 
could  beat  her. 

Gradually  she  became  more  practical.  Slowly  she  formed  her 
plans.  First,  what  had  Martin  done?  Perhaps  he  had  told  the 
woman  of  the  house  that  she,  Maggie,  was  to  be  turned  out,  did 
she  not,  of  herself,  go  away.  No,  Martin  would  not  do  that. 
Maggie  knew  quite  confidently  that  he  would  never  allow  any  one 
to  insult  her.  Perhaps  Martin  would  not  come  back  at  all.  Per- 
haps Ills  hat  and  his  coat  were  his  only  possessions.  That  was 
a  terrible  thought!  Had  he  gone,  leaving  no  trace,  how  would 
she  ever  find  him  again !    She  remembered  then  that  he  had  gone 


THE  DABK  ROOM 


431 


•tnight  downsUira  and  out  of  the  house.  He  bad  not  apokou  to 
the  landlady.  That  did  not  look  like  a  permanent  departure.  But 
she  would  make  certain. 

She  pushed  open  the  other  door  and  peeped  into  the  further 
room.  She  saw  a  dirty  unmade  bed,  a  tin  washhand  stand,  and 
an  open  carpet-bag  filled  with  soiled  linen.  No,  be  would  como 
back. 

She  sat  there  thinking  out  her  plans.  She  was  suddenly  clear, 
determined,  resourceful,  all  the  things  that  she  had  never  been  in 
her  life  before.  First  she  must  sec  the  landlady;  next  she  must 
go  to  the  shops — but  suppose  he  should  return  while  she  was  there, 
pack  his  bag  and  leave  for  ever!  Sho  must  risk  that.  She  thought 
that  he  would  not  return  at  once  because  he  would  want,  as  he 
aaid,  " to  tire  her  out."  "To  tire  her  out!"  She  laughed  at  that. 
She  looked  about  the  room  and  decided  how  she  would  improve 
it.  She  nodded  to  herself.  Yes,  and  the  bedroom  too.  All  this 
time  she  was  so  happy  that  she  could  scarcely  prevent  herself  from 
singing  aloud. 

She  went  out,  down  the  dark  stairs,  and  found  the  maid,  under  a 
swinging  candle-flame,  still  scrubbing.  How  strange  that  in  that 
short  space  of  time,  when  the  whole  of  life  had  altered  for  her, 
that  girl  had  been  on  her  knees  scrubbing  I 

"Could  you  tell  me,  please,"  she  asked,  "whether  I  could  see 
somebody  who  is  in  charge  of  this  house — the  landlady  or " 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do? "  said  a  voice  behind  her. 

She  turned  to  find  a  short  stout  woman  in  voluminous  black — 
black  bonnet,  black  cape,  black  gloves — watching  her  with  sharp 
bright  eyes. 

"  Are  you  the  landlady! "  Maggie  asked. 

"  I  ham,"  said  the  woman.    "  Mrs.  Brandon— ma'am." 

The  servant-girl  had  suspended  operations,  kneeling  up  and 
watching  with  open  mcuth  developments. 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you."  said  Maggie.    "  How  do  you  do ! " 

"How  do  you  do,  ma'am!"  said  Mrs.  Brandon. 

"  The  point  is  just  this,"  said  Maggie,  speaking  rather  fast  as 
though  she  were  confused,  which  she  was  not.  "  Mr.  Warlock  is  a 
very  old  friend  of  mine  and  I'm  afraid  he's  very  ill  indeed.  He's 
very  ill  and  there's  nobody  to  look  after  him.  What  I  was  wonder- 
ing was  whether  there  was  a  bedroom  in  your  house  that  I  could 
have — so  that  I  could  look  after  him,  you  see,  and  get  him  any- 
thing he  wants." 

Mrs.  Brandon  overlooked  Maggie  from  head  to  foot — very  slowly 
she  did  it,  her  eyes  passing  over  the  rather  shabby  black  hat,  the 


432 


THE  CAPTIVES 


•bort  hiir,  the  plain  black  dreu,  the  thoea  worn  and  aoiled.  She 
also  looked  at  Maggie's  wcddiog-ring. 

"  Well,  Mrs. "  she  Iwgaii. 

"  Mrs.  Trenchard  is  my  name,"  said  Maggie,  blushing  in  spite 
of  herself  at  the  long  scrutiny. 

"  I  'ope  you're  not  reproaching  anybody  with  neglect  of  the 
gentleman."  She  had  an  action,  as  she  talked,  of  flinging  a  TC17 
seedy-looking  black  boa  back  across  her  neck  vindictively.  "  Wot 
I  mean  to  say  is  that  gentleman  lodgers  must  take  their  chance 
and  c's  two  weeks  overdue  with  'is  rent  as  it  is  .  .  .  but  of  course 
I'm  not  saying  I  couldn't  oblige.  'E's  a  nice  gentleman  too, 
although  not  talkative  so  to  speak,  but  if  it  would  give  'im  'appi- 
nees  to  'ave  a  lady  friend  close  at  'and  as  you  might  say,  why  I 
wouldn't  like  to  be  one  to  stand  in  'is  way.  '  Live  and  let  live,' 
'as  always  been  my  motter,  and  a  very  good  one  too." 

She  said  all  this  very  slowly,  with  a  good  many  significant 
pauses.  Maggie,  however,  felt  nothing  but  happiness  at  the  pros- 
pect of  getting  her  way.  She  had  gone  far  beyond  all  personal 
sensations  of  shame  or  fear  or  hesitation. 

"  Would  you  show  me  the  room,  please  t "  she  asked. 

They  pushed  past  the  servant-girl,  whose  eyes  followed  them  up 
the  stairs  with  hungry  curiosity. 

They  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Brandon  displayed  a 
dark  sulky  little  room  with  damp  of  the  tomb  clinging  to  its 
wall. 

"  Ten  bob  a  week,"  she  said.  She  sunk  her  voice  to  a  confidential 
whisper.  "  The  best  of  this  'ouse  is  that  you  can  do  what  you  like. 
No  one  minds  and  no  one  sees.  'Them  as  lives  in  glass  'ouses.' 
That's  what  I  say." 

"  I'll  take  it,"  said  Maggie. 

"Youll  be  wanting  a  key,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon,  sud- 
denly verj;  friendly.  "To  let  yerself  in  an'  out  at  nights.  I'll 
fetch  yer  one." 

She  did.    Maggie  thanked  her. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  whether  you  have  such  a  thing  as  a  small 
basket  you  could  lend  me.  I'm  going  out  to  buy  one  or  two 
necessaries." 

"Certingly,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon,  all  smiles.  "Certingly,  and 
anythink  else  you'll  be  needii        All  you've  got  to  do  is  ter  ask." 

This  settled,  Maggie  departea  on  her  shopping  expedition.  She 
was  still  driven  by  a  curious  clarity  and  decision  as  to  what  she 
wanted  to  do.  Sho  felt  as  though  she  could  conquer  the  world 
to-day  and  then  parcel  it  out  equitably  and  with  success  amongst 


THK  DARK  ROOM  433 

^  hl?1'  ""ir?!  "'•"'.•  'r"*^\  ^'*  *"•  "«'»«•  «»  !»'  now  that 
•hehidfound  MirtinJ    Um  than  the  dutt 

Lynton  Street  offered  her  nothing  but  dirty  and  grime-ttaiMd 

wmdow,  but  .he  found  her  way  into  King  Edward  8.!^cr«nd ZS 

itn  rr  ""7.  •'"""•  •  ^^^  ^-^  ""'  '"'  ""^'>  "oney  actu.  " 
Tt^      •  f"^  l*"  ««"'»<•"  of  her  precloua  three  hundred  wo, 

ine^^hr"  'h  '  >?''  '."  ^^T"'  '■"'  '•  •"  •  '""''  that  h^,X 
^he  h'.S  ?K  '  '°  ^.°"'^°"',  ^^^  J'"'"^  '"  •>"  P"""  "d  found  that 
.he  had  three  pound.,  twelve  .hilling,  and  .ixpence.    Martin  mu.t 

lZ°,t\  r       ""^  •T"''^«'  °""""  '*""  P'P*''  -o  the  probability 

f  hluf  te  •"'"''"^  ','■  ?''^^'">^'r  ""««!»'«  fir»t  Purcha.^  were 
a  blue  teapot,  two  blue  plate.,  and  two  blue  eup.  and  Mueer.. 

„n  t,'i.  «  '°~' '''\°""'  ««t  "omething  that  could  be  cooked  ea.ily 
on  h.8  fire.  She  bought  three  of  the  ^-o,hc.t  po..ible  egg.,  half  a 
dozen  .auBagc.  a  loaf  of  bread,  half  a  pound  of  butter  two  pot^ 
of  jam,  one  pot  of  tnannalade,  aome  apple.,  a  pound  of  tea  a 
pound  of  sugar. 
"This  will  do  as  a  start,"  .he  uid  to  herwlf. 

.tTflr„'  'T  "'"?'  V"^  '.'"''  ^»^"'»  Street  when  .he  .topped 
IL^T  ,\  ^"  **"  T'*'"'  '"'""K  •'  her  mo.t  fragranUy 
under  the  ga.-l.gh  wa,  a  white  hyacinth  in  a  blue  pot.  It  «emed 
to  speak  to  her  with  the  .ame  significance  a,  once'^he  rinT^^ 
the  three  pearl.;  a.  though  it  Mid:  "  You've  got  to  u«,  me  I'm 
a  Imk  in  the  chain. 

.™l!nlT.?*/^.,'"'M''*"'  '"o?""?'  ""*  "'y  """=•'•  considering  the 
^lendour  of  the  blue  pot.    She  bought  it.    She  was  glad  thaf  13a 

uponTer     '  "'"'        '""''"  ""'^  ""'  ^""^  '"'^'"^  ^^""^ 

She  climbed  the  stair,  to  Martin's  room  with  beating  heart 
Suppose  he  had  returned  and  was  there  and  would  not  let  her  in? 
Or  suppose,  worse  than  that,  that  he  had  returned,  packed  his  bae 
atla^LT"/  "^-'^  Her  heart  was  beating  so  terribly  when 
at  last  she  had  arrived  outside  the  door  that  she  had  to  put  down 
the  hyacinth  and  the  basket  and  stand  for  a  minute  there  panting. 
She  pushed  back  the  door;  the  room  was  lit  by  the  reflection 
from  a  lamp  in  a  window  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road-  this 
Bickered  with  a  pale  uncertain  glow  across  the  floor.  He  was  not 
here.  She  opened  the  bedroom  door.  He  had  not  packed  his 
bag  She  sighed  with  relief.  She  found  a  bell  and  pressed  it. 
JO  ner  great  surprise  the  scrubbing  maid  almost  instantly  pre- 
sented herself ;  curiosity  had  undoubtedly  hastened  her  steps 
What  a  your  name?"  asked  Maggie,  smiling 


434 


THE  CAPTIVES 


•<  Emily,"  iiid  the  girl. 

"  Tlie  lirat  thing  I  wint  ii  i  box  of  mitchot,"  uid  Maggie. 
"  You'll  light  the  gai  for  roe,  won't  jrou.  The  truth  ia,  I'm  not 
quite  toll  enough  to  reach  it." 

Emily  lit  the  g». 

"  Thank  you  lo  much,"  (aid  Maggie.  "  I  muat  have  a  fire. 
That'i  the  next  thing.  Thii  cold  room  muat  have  bven  a  lud  thing 
for  Mr.  Warlock  with  hit  cough." 

"  Yea,  'e  'as  got  a  corf,"  taid  Emily,  watching  Maggie  with  all 
her  cye». 

"  Well,  do  you  think  I  could  have  a  £ret"  asked  Maggie. 

Emily  considered. 

"  I'll  ask  the  missus,"  she  said;  "  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

She  returned  soon  with  coal,  wood  and  newspaper.  She  also 
informed  Maggie  that  Mrs.  Brandon  would  like  to  have  a  "  little 
in  advance  if  convenient,  that  being  the  custom." 

Maggie  delivered  up  ten  and  sixpence  and  was  left  with  exactly 
two  shillings  in  her  pocket.  But  how  beautiful  the  room  appeared! 
Emily,  whose  ugly  bony  countenance  now  wore  a  look  of  excited 
breathlessness  as  though  she  were  playing  a  new  kind  of  game, 
discovered  a  piece  of  dark  sad  cloth  somewhere  in  the  lower  region 
and  this  wos  pinned  up  over  the  window.  The  fire  was  soon  blaz- 
ing away  as  though  the  fireplace  rejoiced  to  have  a  chance  of  being 
warm  once  more.  A  shabby  but  clean  table-cloth  was  discovered 
and  placed  upon  the  table,  and  in  the  middle  of  this  the  hyacinth 
was  triumphantly  stationed. 

"  Now  I  tell  you  what  would  be  nice,"  said  Maggie,  also  by  this 
time  breathless,  "  and  that's  a  lamp.  This  gas  isn't  very  pleasant, 
is  it,  and  it  doei  make  such  a  noise." 

"  It  doea  make  a  noise,"  said  Emily,  looking  at  the  gas  as  though 
she  were  seeing  it  for  the  first  time. 

"Well,  do  you  think  there's  a  lamp  somewhere!" 

Emily  licked  her  finger. 

"  I'll  ask  the  missus,"  she  said  and  disappeared.  Soon  she  re- 
turned with  a  lamp,  its  glories  hidden  beneath  a  bright  pink  paper 
shade. 

Maggie  removed  the  paper  shade,  placed  the  lamp  on  the  table, 
then  the  blue  plates,  the  blue  cups  and  saucers,  the  blue  teapot. 

A  shrill  voice  was  heard  calling  for  Emily.  Maggie  had  then  her 
kingdom  to  herself. 

She  stood  there,  waiting  and  listening.  The  approoching  inter- 
view must  have  seemed  to  her  the  climax  of  her  whole  life.  She 
stood,  clamping  and  unclasping  her  hands,  goiog  to  the  table,  mov- 


THE  DARK  ROOM  435 

fag  «he  platen,  then  movinic  tbcm  back  asain.  Pcrhapi  ho  would 
not  return  at  all  that  niRht,  perhapi  not  until  ml.lniKht  or  later. 
Ho  mmht  U-  drunk,  ho  niJKlit  b«'  violent.  She  did  not  caro.  It  waa 
enouKb  for  her  that  ho  ahoulil  be  there. 

"  Oh  I  do  wish  ho'd  come,"  ahc  wbiaperod  aloud. 

_  She  had  looked  at  her  watch  and  8.en  that  it  waa  ju»t  eight 
o  clock  when  alio  heard  a  itep  on  the  atair.  She  had  already  bor- 
rowed from  Emily  a  frying-pan.  Quickly  «ho  put  the  aauaagca 
into  It.  placed  them  on  the  flru  ond  llir,i    -nod  over  them. 

The  door  opened.  She  knew  who  it  w..«  becauto  she  heard  him 
itart  auddcniy  with  a  little  exclamation  of  aurprisc.  She  turned 
and  looked  ot  him.  Iter  fir.-t  thnuRht  was  that  ho  aocmed  dea- 
porately  weary,  weary  with  a  fotiRue  not  only  physical.  Ilia  whole 
bearinK  waa  that  of  a  man  beotcn.  dc'feated,  ra(tinK,  it  miRht  be 
with  the  con«ciouBne»«  of  hia  defeat  but  beyond  all  hope  of  aveng-' 
ing  It.  Ilcr  pity  for  him  made  her  tremble  but,  with  that  she 
realised  that  the  worst  thing  that  she  could  do  waa  to  ihow  pity. 
What  had  ho  expected i  To  find  her  gone?  To  find  her  still  ait- 
tmg  defiantly  where  ho  had  left  her!  To  see  her  crying,  perhaps 
on  her  knees  before  him,  beseeching  him  1    Anything  but  not  this. 

Sho  could  see  that  ho  was  oatonished  and  was  resolved  not  to  let 
her  know  it. 

lie  moved  past  her  without  a  word,  and  went  into  the  other 
room.  Sho  said  nothing,  but  bent  over  the  sausages.  They  were 
sizzling  and  flung  out  n  splendid  smell. 

lie  came  back  without  his  hct  and  coat.  He  stood  by  the  bed- 
room door  and  slowly  looked  round  the  room,  taking  everything  in. 

"  I  thought  you'd  have  gone,"  he  soid ;  "  I  warned  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  laughing: 

"  I  haven't,"  she  said.  "  Whatever  happens  afterwards.  Martin, 
WB  may  as  well  have  one  meal  together.  I'm  very  hungry.  I 
know  you'll  forgive  my  u-<ing  your  room  like  this,  but  I  didn't 
want  to  go  to  a  shop.    So  I  just  brought  the  things  in  here." 

His  eyes  lighted  on  the  hyacinth. 

"I  know  what  your  game  is."  he  said  huskily.  "But  it  isn't 
any  good.    You  may  as  well  chuck  it." 

"  All  right,"  she  ■•said.    "  After  we've  had  a  meal." 

Straightening  herself  up  from  the  heat  of  the  fire  she  had  a 
terrible  temptation  then  to  go  to  him.  It  overwhelmed  he.-  in  a 
flood;  her  knees  and  hands  trembled.  She  wanted  just  to  touch  his 
arm,  to  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  But  she  knew  that  she 
must  not. 

"  Sit  down  for  a  bit,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "  and  let's  have  our 


436 


THE  CAPTIVES 


meaL  Tbera's  nothing  terrible  in  that,  Uartin.  I've  not  put 
poison  in  your  food  or  anytliing  and  the  Bauaages  do  smell  nice." 

To  her  surprise  he  sat  down,  suddenly  collapsing  as  though  he 
were  too  tired  to  stand  any  longer.  He  said  nothing  more.  She 
finished  the  sausages,  put  them  on  the  table,  then  took  a  saucepan 
(also  Emily's  gift),  filled  it  with  water  and  put  in  the  eggs. 

"  Come  on."  she  said  gently,  "  or  the  sausages  will  get  cold." 

He  went  then  to  the  table,  cut  off  some  bread  and  began  to  eat 
ravenously.  Her  heart  felt  a  dim  distant  triumph  when  she  saw 
that  he  was  so  hungry,  but  it  was  too  early  to  feel  triumph  yet. 

She  came  to  the  table  and  began  to  eat,  although  she  felt  no 
hunger. 

"  You're  married,  aren't  you ! "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  Where's  your  husband  ? " 

"  A  place  called  Skeaton." 

"  Well,  you'd  better  get  back  there  to-night " 

"  I'm  staying  in  London  for  a  day  or  two." 

"Where?" 

"  Here.    I've  got  a  bedroom  upstairs." 

"  You  can  do  what  you  damn  well  please,"  he  said.  "  It  doesn't 
matter  to  me.  I'm  going  away  from  here  to-morrow  morning." 
Then,  after  another  pause,  he  said : 

"  What  sort  of  a  man's  your  husband  ? " 

"  A  clergyman,"  she  answered. 

"  A  clergyman  ,  .  .  good  Lord  I "  He  laughed  grimly.  "  Still 
religious,  I  see." 

All  this  time  she  was  thinking  how  ill  he  was.  Every  breath 
that  he  drew  seemed  to  hurt  him.  His  eyes  were  dull  and  ex- 
pressionless. He  moved  his  hands,  sometimes,  with  a  groping 
movement  as  though  he  could  not  see.  He  drank  his  tea  thirstily, 
eagerly. 

At  last  be  had  finished.  He  bent  forward,  leaning  on  his  hands, 
looking  her  steadily  in  the  face  for  the  first  time. 

"It  was  clever  of  you  to  do  this,"  he  said;  "damn  clever.  I 
was  hungry,  I  don't  mind  confessing  .  .  .  but  that's  the  last  of 
it.  Do  you  heart  I  can  look  after  myself.  I  know.  You're 
feeling  sorry  for  me.  Think  I'm  in  a  dirty  room  with  no  one  to 
look  after  me.  Think  Tm  ill.  I  bet  Amy  told  you  I  was  ill.  '  Oh, 
poor  fellow,'  you  thought,  '  I  must  go  and  look  after  him.'  Well, 
I'm  not  a  poor  fellow  and  I  don't  want  looking  after.  I  can 
manage  for  myself  very  nicely.  And  I  don't  want  any  women 
hanging  round.    I'm  side  of  women,  and  that's  flat. 


THE  DARK  ROOM  437 

"I'mnot  pretending  it's  not  all  my  own  fault.    It  is.    All  m. 

And  I  don  t  want  any  p.ty.  You've  had  a  nice  romantic  idTa  in 
your  head,  saving  the  sinner  and  all  the  rest  of  it.    wXyou  can 

'  Indl^Tf  r'  ""T-  .??:'  '^'=  »°rt  f"  »»""  kind  of  s  uff." 
Indeed  I  haven't."  said  Maggie.    « I  don't  care  whether  vou're 
a  smner  ornot     You;™  being  too  serious  about  it  alKMart  n^   w" 
were  old  fnends.     When  I  heard  you  were  in  London  I  came 

Aunt  Anne's  dead  and-and-Uncle  Mathew  too.  TheSs  nowhere 
else  for  me  to  go.  I  don't  pity  you.  Why  should  I?  You  "hink 
Z  Z'^1^"'  yourself  Martin.  It  wafn't  to  be  dever  that  I 
ABC  shop"  ""''         '^'^'  *""*  ^  '"''°''  "'°'  '"  «""  i°  O" 

hThVntr  t^hig."""'  •""'"  ^'  "^  ^^-^  *^'''  '"^- 

He  turned  finally  upon  hev. 

"Whatever  your  plan  wa.  it's  failed,"  he  said.  "I'm  goine  to 
bed  straight  away  now.  And  to-morrow  morning  earTy  rm  off 
Thank  you  for  the  meal  and-good-night  and  good-bye" 

n.A  ^'"t.v-  °°^  '*';"«''*  '°''''-  She  looked  up  at  him,  calmly 
He  drepped  his  eyes;  then,  clumsily  he  walked  off,  open^  his  M- 
room  door,  closed  it  behind  him,  and  was  gone. 

She  sat  there,  staring  in  front  of  her,  thinking.  What  was  ,h,. 
to  do  now!  At  least  she  might  clear 'up.  ShThad  nowhere  to 
,M•^'?,f  '^Vr-  ^''t'"';'''^  P^*  *«"•  ™4r  for  the  morn°"g  She 
tidied  the  table,  put  the  plates  and  cups  together,  then,  overcome  by 
a  sudden  exhaustion,  she  sat  down  on  the  sofa  •  "™rcome  Dy 

She  realised  then  the  fight  that  the  day  had  been.  Yes,  a  fight  I 
...  and  she  was  still  only  at  the  beginning  of  it.  If  he  really 
went  away  in  the  morning  what  could  she  do?     She  could  not 

No  The™?'  ;°"°''/<"'f'»°-  B"t  «•>«  would  not  des^a  r  yet 
No  she  was  far  from  despair.    But  she  was  tired,  tired  to  death 

She  sat  on  there  m  a  kind  of  dream.  There  were  no  sounds  in 
«al.     Ti;    The  fire  began  to  drop  very  low.    There  were  no  more 

Ttb.  1/  "7  ^^l  t  '*,™'^  "''"'y-  ^^^  '«!<>  her  head  back 
on  the  sofa;  she  was  half  asleep.  She  wi,s  dreaming-PauI  was 
here  and  Grace^the  Skeaton  sand^the  Revival  pr<^sion  w™ 
the  lanterns— the  swish  of  the  sea.  .   . 

W  r?™"'i'l-"'j.!  Tr  "'.''*  '""''^-  7^^  ''^"P  •'^'^  """"t  down  to  a 
low  rim  of  light    Martin  was  coughing  in  ti,c  other  room.    Cough- 


438 


THE  CAPTIVES 


ing !  She  had  never  heard  such  a  cough,  something  inhuman  and 
strange.  She  stood  up,  her  hands  clutched.  She  waited.  Then, 
as  it  continued,  growing  fiercer  and  fiercer,  so  that  in  spite  of  the 
closed  door  it  seemed  to  be  in  the  very  room  with  her,  she  could 
bear  it  no  longer. 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  The  room  was  lit  by  a  candle 
placed  on  a  chair  beside  the  bed.  Martin  was  sitting  up,  his  hands 
fllenched,  his  face  convulsed.  The  cough  went  on — choking,  con- 
vulsing, as  though  some  terrible  enemy  had  hands  at  bis  windpipe. 
He  grasped  the  bedclothes,  his  eyes,  frightened  and  dilated,  staring 
in  front  of  him. 

She  went  to  him.  He  did  not  look  at  her,  but  whispered  in  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  miles  away: 

"  Bottle    .   .   .    over  there    .    .   .    glass." 

She  saw  on  the  wash-hand  stand  a  bottle  with  a  medicine  glass 
behind  it.  She  read  the  directions,  poured  out  the  drops,  took  it 
over  and  gave  it  to  him.  He  swallowed  it  down.  She  put  out  her 
arm  to  steady  him  and  felt  his  whole  bodv  tremble  beneath  her 
hand.  Gradually  he  was  quieter.  Utterly  exhausted  he  slipped 
back,  his  head  on  the  pillow. 

She  drew  her  chair  close  to  the  bed.  He  was  too  exhausted  to 
speak  and  did  not  look  at  her  at  all.  After  a  while  she  put  her 
hand  on  his  forehead  and  stroked  it.  He  did  not  draw  away  from 
her.  Slowly  his  head  turned  towards  her.  He  lay  there  in  the 
crook  of  her  arm,  she  bending  forward  over  him. 

Her  heart  beat.  She  tried  not  to  be  conscious  of  his  closeness 
to  her,  but  her  hand  trembled  as  it  touched  Ms  cheek. 

Still  he  did  not  move  away.  After,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  a  long 
time  he  was  asleep.  She  listened  to  his  breathing,  and  only  then, 
when  she  knew  that  he  could  not  hear,  she  whispered : 

"  Oh,  Martin,  I  love  you  so !    Dear  Martin,  I  love  you  so  much ! " 

She  blew  out  the  candle  and,  her  arm  beneath  his  head,  sat  there, 
watching. 


CHAPTER  U 


HOBGOBLINS 

THE  dawn  had  made  the  dark  room  grey  when  Maggie,  stiff 
and  sore  from  the  strained  position  in  which  she  had  been 
sitting,  went  up  to  her  room.  She  had  intended  not  to  go  to 
bed,  but  weariness  overcame  her;  she  lay  down  on  her  bed,  dressed 
as  she  was,  and  fell  into  a  deep,  exhausted  slumber. 

When  she  woke  it  was  broad  daylight.  She  was  panic-stricken. 
How  could  she  have  slept?  And  now  he  might  have  gone.  She 
washed  her  face  and  hands  in  the  horrible  little  tin  basin,  brushed 
her  ha,r,  and  then,  with  beating  heart,  went  downstairs.     His 

tnlirf 'T  "'J  '^V^  '^^  ^"^  '"*'  ''•  t''^  -nwasbed  plates  piled 
together,  the  red  cloth  over  the  window,  the  dead  ashes  of  the  fire 

?i!  •  ^11'  I^^  *^°"''  *^  "P^"^*!  '■''  bedroom  door.  He  was 
still  in  bed  She  went  over  to  him.  He  was  asleep,  muttering, 
his  hands  clenched  on  the  counterpane.  His  cheeks  were  flushed 
lo  her  inexperjcnced  eyes  he  looked  very  ill 

She  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and  with  a  start  he  sprang 
awake  his  eyes  .viJe  open  with  terror,  and  he  crying: 

;  What  .sit?    No    .   .   .    no    .   .   .    don't.    Don't." 
Its  all  right,  Martin.    It's  I.  Maggie,"  she  said. 

He  stared  at  her;  then  dropping  back  on  to  the  pillow,  be  mut- 
tered wearily  as  though  he  were  worn  out  after  a  long  struggle- 

im  bad.    .  It's  my  chest.     There's  a  doctor.     They'U 

tell  you.    .    .    .    He's  been  here  before." 

She  went  into  the  other  room  and  rang  the  bell.  After  a  time 
Mrs.  iirandon  herself  appeared. 

"I'm  afraid  Mr.  Warlock  is  very  ill,"  said  Maggie,  trying  to 
keep  her  voice  from  trembling.  "  He's  asked  me  to  fetch  the  doc- 
tor who  s  been  here  to  see  him  before.  Can  you  tell  me  who  he  is 
and  where  he  lives?  " 

Mrs.  Brandon's  bright  and  inquisitive  eyes  moved  round  the 
room^  taking  in  the  blue  china,  the  hyacinth  and  the  lamp 

'  Certingly,"  she  said.     "That  must  be  Dr.  Abrams.     'E  lives 

whp?'!'"  K''*^''i^u  *~°'":  '^""'"""'  ^''"■•'"-     A  good  doctor 
when  e  5  sober,  and  the  morning's  the  best  time  to  be  sure  of  'im 
Lertmgly   e  s  been  in  to  see  your  friend  several  times.     They've 
been  merry  together  more  than  oncp." 
439 


440 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"Where  is  Cowky  Street!"  asked  Maggie. 

"First  to  the  right  when  you  get  out  of  the  'ouse,  and  then 
second  to  the  left  again.  No.  4'b  the  number.  It's  most  likely 
'e'll  be  asleep.  Yes,  Dr.  Abrams,  that's  the  name.  'E's  attended  a 
lot  in  this 'ouse.  Wot  a  pretty  6ower  I  Cheers  the  room  up  I  must 
say.    Will  you  be  wanting  another  fire?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "  Could  Emily  see  to  that  while  I'm 
away  ? " 

"  Certingly,"  said  Mrs.  Brandon,  looking  at  Maggie  with  a  curi- 
ous confidential  smile — a  hateful  smile,  but  there  was  no  time  to 
think  about  it 

Maggie  went  out.  She  found  Cowley  Street  without  any  diffi- 
culty. Dr.  Abrams  was  up  and  having  his  breakfast.  His  close, 
musty  room  smelt  of  whisky  and  kippers.  He  himself  was  a  little, 
fat  round  Jew,  very  red  in  the  face,  very  small  in  ibe  eye,  very 
black  in  the  hair,  and  very  dirty  in  the  hands. 

He  was  startled  by  Maggie's  appeamiice — very  different  she  was 
from  his  usual  patients. 

"  Looked  just  a  baby,"  he  informed  Mrs.  Brandon  afterwards. 

"Mrs.  Warlock?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Maggie  defiantly.    "  Tm  a  friend  of  Mr.  Warlock's." 

"  Ah,  yes— quite  so."  He  wiped  his  mouth,  disappeared  into 
another  room,  returned  with  a  shabby  black  bag  and  a  still  shab- 
bier top  hat,  and  declared  himself  ready  to  start. 

"It's  pneumonia,"  he  told  her  as  they  went  along.  "Had  it 
three  weeks  ago.  Of  course  if  he  was  out  in  yesterday's  fog  that 
finished  him." 

"  He  was  out,"  said  Maggie,  "for  a  long  time." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Dr.  Abrams.  "  That's  killed  him,  I  shouMn|t 
wonder."  He  snuffled  in  his  speech  and  he  snuffled  in  his 
walk.  .  ^ 

Before  they  had  gone  very  far  he  put  his  hand  on  Maggies 
arm;  she  hated  his  'touch,  but  his  last  words  had  so  deeply  terrified 
her  that  nothing  else  affected  her.  If  Martin  were  killed  by  going 
out  yesterday  then  she  had  killed  him.  He  had  gone  out  to 
escape  her.  But  she  drove  that  thought  from  her  as  she  had  driven 
so  many  others. 

"  The  penumonia's  bad  enough,"  said  the  little  man,  becoming 
more  confidential  as  his  grip  tightened  on  her  arm,  "but  it's 
heart's  the  trouble.  Might  finish  him  any  day.  Tells  me  his 
father  was  the  same.  What  a  nice  warm  arm  you've  got,  my  dear 
— it's  a  pleasant  day,  too." 

They  entered  the  house  and  Dr.  Abrams  stayed  chatting  with 


HOBGOBLINS 


441 


Emily  in  the  pauage  for  a  conaiderable  time.     Any  one  of  the 
opposite  sex  seemed  to  hare  an  irresistible  attraction  for  him. 

When  they  went  upstairs  the  doctor  was  so  held  by  his  burning 
curiosity  that  it  was  difficult  to  lead  him  into  Martin's  bedroom. 
Ererytbing  interested  him;  he  bent  down  and  felt  the  tablecloth 
with  his  dirty  thumb,  then  the  soil  round  the  hyacinth,  then  tho 
blue  china.  Between  every  investigation  he  stared  at  Maggie  as 
though  he  were  now  seeing  her  for  the  first  time.  At  last,  how- 
ever, he  was  bending  over  Martin,  and  his  examination  was  clever 
and  deft;  he  had  been,  lilce  his  patient,  used  to  better  oays.  Martin 
was  veiy  ill. 

"  The  boy's  bad,"  ho  said,  turning  sharply  round  upon  Maggie. 

From  the  speaking  of  that  word,  for  six  days  and  six  nights 
he  was  Maggie's  loyal  friend  and  fellow-combatant.  They  fought, 
side  by  side,  in  the  great  struggle  for  Martin's  life.  They  won; 
but  when  Maggie  tried  to  look  back  afterwards  on  the  history  of 
that  wrestling,  she  saw  nothing  connectedly,  only  the  candle-light 
springing  and  falling,  the  little  doctor's  sharp  eyes,  the  torn  paper 
of  the  wall,  the  ragged  carpet,  and  always  that  strange  mask  that 
was  Martin's  face  and  yet  the  face  of  a  stranger,  something  tor- 
tured and  fantastic,  passing  from  Chinese  immobility  to  frenzied 
pain,  from  pain  to  sweating  exhaustion,  from  exhaustion  back  to 
immobility. 

On  the  eighth  day  she  rose,  as  a  swimmer  rises  from  green 
depths,  and  saw  the  sunshine  and  the  landscape  again. 

"He'll  do  if  you're  careful,"  said  Dr.  Abrams,  and  suddenly 
became  once  more  the  curious,  dirty,  sensual  little  creature  that  he 
had  been  at  first.  Her  only  contact  with  the  outer  world  had  been 
her  visits  to  the  neighbouring  streets  for  necessaries  and  one 
journey  to  the  bank  (the  nearest  branch  was  in  Oxford  Street)  to 
settle  about  her  money.  But  now,  with  the  doctor's  words,  the 
rest  of  the  world  came  back  to  her.  She  remembered  Paul.  She 
was  horrified  to  realise  that  during  these  days  she  had  entirely  for- 
gotten him.  He,  of  course  could  not  write  to  her  because  he  did 
not  know  her  address.  When  she  saw  that  Martin  was  quietly 
sleeping  she  sat  down  and  wrote  the  following  letter: 

13a  Ltnton  Street. 
Kino's  Cross,  April  28(A,  1912. 
Mt  dear  Paul, — I  have  been  very  wrong  indeed  not  to  write  to 
you  before  this.     It's  only  of  a  piece  with  all  my  other  bad  be- 
haviour to  you,  and  it's  very  late  now  to  say  that  I  am  ashamed. 
I  will  tell  you  the  truth,  which  is  that  on  the  day  I  left  you  I  had 


44S 


THE  CAPTIVES 


received  a  letter  telling  me  that  the  friend  of  whom  I  have  often 
told  you  was  in  England,  Tery  ill,  and  with  no  one  to  care  for  him. 
I  had  to  go.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  right  or  wrong— wrong 
J  suppose — but  1  always  knew  that  if  he  ever  wanted  me  /  should 
go.  I've  always  been  truthful  to  you  about  that.  When  I  came 
here  I  found  that  he  was  in  horrible  lodgings,  very  ill  indeed,  and 
with  no  one  to  look  after  him.  I  had  to  stay,  and  now  for  a  week 
he  has  been  between  life  and  death.  He  had  pneumonia  some 
weeks  ago  and  went  out  too  soon.  His  heart  also  is  bad.  I  believe 
DOW  he  can  get  well  if  great  care  is  taken. 

Dear  Paul,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you.  I  have  a  bedroom 
in  this  house  and  every  on?  is  very  kind  to  mc,  but  you  will  think 
me  very  wicked.  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't  come  back  to  you  and 
Grace.  Perhaps  later  when  he  is  quite  well  I  shall  be  able  to,  but 
I  don't  think  so.  You  don't  need  me;  I  have  never  been  satisfac- 
tory to  you,  only  a  worry.  Grace  will  never  be  able  to  live  with  me 
again,  and  I  can't  stay  in  Skeaton  any  more  after  Uncle  Mathew's 
death.  It  has  all  been  a  wretched  mistake,  Paul,  our  marriage, 
hasT-.'tit?  It  was  my  fault  entirely.  I  shouldn't  have  married  you 
when  I  knew  that  I  would  always  love  Martin.  I  thought  then  that 
I  should  be  able  to  make  you  happy.  If  now  I  felt  that  I  could  I 
would  come  back  at  once,  but  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that,  after 
this,  we  shall  never  be  happy  together  again.  I  blame  myself  so 
much  but  I  can't  act  differently.  Perhaps  when  Martin  is  well 
he  will  not  want  me  at  all,  but  even  then  I  don't  think  I  could 
come  back.  Isn't  it  better  that  at  least  I  should  stay  away  for  a 
time?  You  can  say  that  I  am  staying  with  friends  in  London. 
You  will  be  happier  without  me,  oh,  much  happier — and  Grace  will 
be  happier  too.  Perhaps  you  will  think  it  better  to  forget  me  alto- 
gether and  then  your  life  will  be  as  it  was  before  you  met  me. 

I  won't  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  all  the  trouble  I  have  been 
to  you.    I  don't  think  you  can.    But  I  can't  do  differently  now. 

Your  affectionate  Maggie. 


She  felt  when  she  had  Bnished  it  that  it  was  miserably  inade- 
quate, but  at  least  it  was  truthful.  As  she  wrote  it  her  old  feelings 
of  tenderness  and  affection  for  Paul  came  back  in  a  great  flood. 
She  saw  him  during  the  many,  many  times  when  he  had  been 
so  good  to  her.  She  was  miserable  as  she  finished  it,  but  she 
knew  that  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  And  he  would  know  it 
too. 

A  day  later  a  long  letter  came  from  Paul.  It  was  very  char- 
acteristic.   It  began  by  saying  that  of  course  Maggie  must  return 


HOBGOBLINS 


443 


at  once.  Throughout,  the  voice  was  that  of  a  grieved  and  angry 
elder  talking  to  a  wicked  and  disobedient  child.  She  saw  tliat, 
far  beyond  everjthing  olac,  it  was  his  pride  that  was  wounded, 
wounded  as  it  had  never  been  before.  He  could  see  nothing  but 
that.  Did  she  realise,  he  asked  her,  what  she  was  doing  (  Sinning 
against  all  the  laws  of  God  and  man.  If  she  persisted  in  her 
wickedness  she  would  bo  cut  off  from  all  decent  people.  No  one 
could  say  that  he  had  not  shown  her  every  indulgence,  every 
kindness,  every  affection.  Even  now  he  was  ready  to  forgive  her, 
but  she  must  come  back  at  once,  at  once,  lltr  extreme  youth  ex- 
cused much,  and  both  he  nnd  Grace  realised  it. 

Through  it  all  the  strain— did  she  not  see  what  she  was  doing? 
How  could  she  behave  so  wickedly  when  she  had  been  givrn  so 
rnany  blessings,  when  she  had  been  shown  the  happiness  of  a  Chris- 
tian home!    .    .   . 

It  was  not  a  letter  to  soften  Maggie's  resolve.  She  wrote  a  short 
reply  saying  that  she  could  not  come.  She  thought  then  that  ho 
would  run  up  to  London  to  fetch  her.  But  he  did  not.  He  wrote 
once  more,  and  then,  for  a  time,  there  was  silence. 

She  had  little  interval  in  which  to  think  about  Paul;  Martin 
soon  compelled  her  attention.  He  was  well  enough  now  to  be  up. 
Ho  would  lie  all  day,  without  moving  except  to  take  his  meals, 
on  the  old  red  sofa,  stretched  out  there,  his  arms  behind  his  head, 
looking  at  Maggie  with  a  strange  taunting  malicious  stare  as 
though  he  were  defying  her  to  stand  up  to  him.  She  did  stand 
up  to  him,  although  it  needed  all  her  strength,  moral  and  physical. 
He  was  attacking  her  soul  and  she  was  saving  his.    .    .    . 

He  said  no  more  about  his  going  away.  lie  accepted  it  as  a 
fact  that  she  was  there  and  that  she  would  stay  there.  He  had 
changed  his  position  and  was  fighting  her  on  another  ground. 

Maggie  had  once,  years  before,  read  in  a  magazine,  a  story 
about  a  traveller  and  a  deserted  house.  This  traveller,  lost,  as  are 
all  travellers  in  stories,  in  a  forest,  benighted  and  hungry,  saw  the 
lights  of  a  house. 

He  goes  forward  and  finds  a  magnificent  mansion,  blazing  with 
light  in  every  window,  but  apparently  deserted.  He  enters  and 
finds  room  after  room  prrpared  for  guests.  A  fine  meal  is  laid 
ready  and  be  enjoys  it.  He  discovers  the  softest  of  beds  and  soon 
is  fast  asleep;  but  when  he  is  safely  snoring  back  creep  all  the 
guests  out  of  the  forest,  hideous  and  evil,  warped  and  deformed, 
maimed  and  rotten  with  disease.  They  had  loft  the  house,  that  ho 
might  be  lured  in  it.  knowing  that  he  would  never  come  whilst 
they  were  there.     And  so  they  creep  into  all  the  rooms,  flinging 


444 


THE  CAPTIVES 


their  horrible  shedowi  upon  the  gleuninB  walli,  ind  gradually  they 
steal  about  the  bed.    .   .    . 

Uaggie  forgot  the  end  of  the  atoiy.  The  traveller  escaped,  or 
perhaps  he  did  not.  Perhaps  he  was  strangled.  But  that  moment 
of  his  awakening,  when  his  startled  eyes  first  stared  upon 
those  horrible  faces,  those  deformed  bodies,  those  evil  smiles! 
What  could  one  do,  one  naked  and  defenceless  against  so 
many? 

Maggie  thought  of  this  story  during  Martin's  convalescence. 
She  seemed  to  see  the  evil  guests,  crowding  back,  one  after  the 
other  into  bis  soul,  and  as  they  came  back  they  peeped  out  at 
her,  smiling  from  the  lighted  windows.  She  saw  that  his  plan 
was  to  thrust  before  her  the  veiy  worst  of  himself.  He  said: 
"  Well,  I've  tried  to  get  rid  of  her  and  she  won't  go.  That's  her 
own  aSair,  but  if  she  stays,  at  least  she  shall  see  me  as  I  am. 
No  false  sentimental  picture.    I'll  cure  her." 

It  was  the  oldest  trick  in  the  world,  but  to  Maggie  it  was  new 
enough.  At  first  she  was  terrified.  In  spite  of  her  early  experi- 
ence with  her  father,  when  she  had  learnt  what  wickedness  could 
be,  she  was  a  child  in  all  knowledge  of  the  world.  Above  all  she 
knew  veiy  little  about  her  own  sex  and  its  relation  with  men. 
But  she  determined  that  she  must  take  the  whole  of  Martin;  in 
the  very  first  days  of  her  love  she  bad  resolved  that,  and  now 
that  resolution  was  to  be  put  to  the  teat.  Her  terrified  fear  was  lest 
the  things  that  he  told  her  about  himself  should  affect  her  love 
for  him.  She  had  told  him  years  before:  "It  isn't  the  things 
you've  done  that  I  mind  or  care  about:  it's  you,  not  actions  that 
matter."  But  his  actions  were  himself,  and  what  was  she  to  do  if 
all  these  things  that  he  said  were  true) 

Then  she  discovered  that  she  had  indeed  spoken  the  truth. 
Her  love  for  him  did  not  change;  it  rather  grew,  helped  and 
strengthened  by  a  maternal  pity  and  cars  that  deepened  and  deep- 
ened. He  seemed  to  her  a  man  really  possessed,  in  literal  fact,  by 
devils.  The  story  of  the  lighted  house  was  the  symbol,  only  he,  in 
the  bitterness  and  defiance  of  his  heart,  bad  invited  be  guests, 
not  been  surprised  by  them. 

He  pretended  to  glory  in  his  narration,  boasting  and  swearing 
'what  he  would  do  when  he  would  return  to  the  old  scenes,  how 
happy  and  triumphant  he  had  been  in  the  midst  of  his  filth- 
hut  young  and  ignorant  though  ..'3  was  she  saw  beneath  this  the 
misery,  the  shame,  the  bitterness,  the  ignominy.  He  was  down  in 
the  dust,  in  a  despair  furious  and  more  self-accusing  than  any- 
thing of  which  she  had  ever  conceived. 


HOBGOBLINS  446 

Aijln  and  tgiin.  too,  although  this  w««  never  deliberately 
rtated,  the  saw  that  he  apoke  like  a  man  caught  in  a  trap.  He  did 
not  blame  any  one  but  himwlf  for  the  catastrophe  of  hia  life,  but 
he  often  ipoke.  in  ipite  of  himself,  like  a  man  who  from  the  very 
b^innmg  had  been  under  gome  occult  influence.  He  never  al- 
luded now  to  hia  early  days  but  she  remembered  how  he  had  once 
told  her  that  that  «  Religion  "  bad  "  got "  him  from  the  very  begin- 
ning, and  had  weighted  aU  the  scales  against  him.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  said:  "I  was  told  from  the  very  beginning  that  I 
was  to  be  made  a  flghting-grouud  of.  I  didn't  want  to  be  that 
I  wasn  t  the  man  for  that.    I  was  chosen  wrongly." 

He  only  once  made  any  allusion  to  his  father's  death,  but  MaRgie 
reiy  soon  diecovered  that  that  was  never  away  from  his  mind. 
I  loved  my  father  and  I  kiUed  him,"  he  said  one  day,  "  so  I 
thought  It  wise  not  to  love  any  one  again." 

Gradually  a  picture  was  cr-ated  in  Maggie's  mind,  a  picture 
ongmating  m  that  dirty,  dark  room  where  they  were.  She  saw 
many  foreign  countries  and  many  foreign  towns,  and  in  all  of 
them  men  and  women  were  evil.  The  tovma  were  always  in  tho 
hour  between  daylight  and  dark,  the  streets  twisted  and  obscure, 
the  inhabitants  furtive  and  sinister. 

The  things  that  those  inhabitants  did  were  made  quite  plain 
to  her.  She  saw  the  dancing  saloons,  the  women  naked  and 
laughing,  the  men  drunken  and  besotted,  the  gambling,  the  quar- 
relling, drugging,  suicide— all  under  a  half-dead  sky,  stinking  and 
offensive. 
One  day,  at  last,  she  laughed. 

"Martin,"  she  cried,  " don't  let's  be  so  serious  about  it.  Tou 
eon  t  want  to  go  back  to  that  life— it's  so  dull.  At  first  I  was 
frightened,  but  now!— why  it's  all  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again." 

"I'm  only  telling  you,"  he  said;  "I  don't  say  that  I  do  want 
to  go  back  again.  I  don't  want  anything  except  for  you  to  go 
•way.    I  just  want  to  go  to  hell  my  own  fashion." 

"  Tou  talk  eo  much  about  going  to  hell,"  she  said.  «  Why,  for 
ten  days  now  you've  spoken  of  nothing  else.  There  are  other 
places,  you  know." 

"  Tou  clear  out  and  get  back  to  your  parson,"  he  said.  "  Tou 
must  see  from  what  I've  told  you  it  isn't  any  good  your  staying 
Fvo  no  money.  My  health's  gone  all  to  billyohl  I  don't  want 
to  get  better.  Why  should  H  Perhaps  I  did  love  yon  a  little  bit 
—once— in  a  queer  way,  but  that's  all  gone  now.  I  don't  love 
any  one  on  this  earth.    I  just  want  to  get  rid  of  this  almighty 


446 


THE  CAPTIVES 


confusion  going  on  in  my  head.    I  can't  rest  for  it.     I'd  flniih 
myteit  oS  if  I  had  pluck  enough.    I  juit  haven't" 

"  Martin,"  she  aaid,  "  why  did  you  write  all  tlio«e  letters  to  ma  I" 

"What  letters?"  he  asked. 

"  Those  that  Amy  stopped — the  ones  from  abroad." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  bo  looked  away  from  her.  "I  waa  a  bit 
lonely,  I  suppose." 

"Tell  me  another  thing,"  she  said.  "These  weeks  I  »e  been 
here  have  I  bored  you  t " 

"  I've  been  too  ill  to  toll.  .  .  .  How  do  I  know  1  Well,  no,  yon 
haven't.  You're  such  a  queer  kid.  You're  different  from  any  other 
human— utterly  different.  No,  you  haven't  bored  mc— but  don't 
think  from  that  I  like  having  you  here.  I  don't— you  remind 
me  of  the  old  life.  I  don't  want  to  think  of  it  more  than  I  must. 
Yo  11  admit  I've  been  trying  to  scare  you  stiff  in  all  I've  told 
you,  and  I  haven't  scared  you.  It's  true,  most  of  it,  but  it  isn't  so 
damned  sensotional  as  I've  tried  to  make  it.  .  .  .  But,  all  the 
same,  what's  the  use  of  your  staying!  I  don't  love  you,  and  I'm 
never  likely  to.  I've  told  you  long  ago  you're  not  the  sort  of  woman 
to  attract  me  physically.  You  never  did.  You're  more  like  a  boy. 
Why  should  you  ruin  your  ovra  life  when  there's  nothing  to  gain 
by  it?  You  will  ruin  it,  you  know,  staying  on  here  with  me. 
Every  one  thinks  we're  living  together.  Have  you  heard  from  your 
parson ! " 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie. 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"  He  says  I've  got  to  go  back  at  once." 

"Well,  there  you  are." 

"  But  don't  you  see,  Martin,  I  shouldn't  go  back  to  him  even  if 
I  left  you.  I've  quite  decided  that.  He'll  never  be  happy  with 
me  unless  I  love  him,  which  I  can't  do,  and  there's  his  sister  who 
bates  me.  And  he's  just  rooted  in  Skeaton.  I  can't  live  there 
after  Uncle  Mathewl" 

"  Tell  me  about  that." 

"  No,"  she  said,  shrinking  back.  "  111  never  tell  any  one.  Not 
even  you." 

"  Now,  look  here."  he  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "  You  must  see 
how  hopeless  it  is.  Maggie.  You've  got  nothing  to  get  out  of  it. 
As  soon  as  I'm  well  enough  I  shall  go  off  and  leave  you.  You 
can't  follow  mo.  hunting  me  everywhere.    You  must  see  that." 

"Yes,  but  what  you  don't,  Martin,  see."  she  answered  him.  "is 
that  I've  got  some  right  to  think  of  my  own  happiness.  It's  quite 
true  what  you  say,  that  if  you  get  n-ell  and  decide  you  don't  want 


HOBGOBLINS 


447 


to  wo  mc  I  won't  follow  you.  Of  courae  I  won't.  Perhaps  one 
day  you  wilt  want  me  nil  the  lame.  But  I'm  happy  only  with  you, 
and  Ao  long  m  1  don't  bore  you  I'm  going  to  >tay.  I've  always  beea 
wrong  with  every  one  else,  stupid  and  doing  everytliintt  I  slmuliln't. 
But  with  you  it  isn't  an.  I'm  nut  stupid,  and  however  yuu  hehava 
I'm  happy.    I  ean't  help  it.     It's  just  so." 

"  But  how  can  you  be  happy  i "  he  said,  "  I'm  not  tho  sort  for 
any  one  to  be  happy  with.  When  I've  been  drinking  I'm  impos- 
sible. I'm  sulky  and  lazy,  and  I  don't  wiu  t  to  be  any  bett.  r  either. 
You  may  think  you're  happy  these  first  few  weeks,  but  you  won't 
be  later  on." 

"  Let's  trj-,"  said  Maggie,  laughing.  "  Here's  a  'largain.  Martin. 
You  say  I  don't  bore  you.  I'll  stay  with  you  i  ntil  you're  quite 
well.  Then  if  you  don't  want  me  I'll  go  and  not  bother  you  until 
you  ask  for  me.    Is  that  a  bargain  i " 

"  You'd  much  better  not,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  don't  think  I'm  staying,"  she  answered,  "because  I  think 
you  so  splendid  that  I  ean't  leave  you.  I  don't  think  you  splendid 
at  all.  And  it's  not  because  I  think  myself  splendid  either.  I'm 
being  quite  selfish  about  it.  I'm  staying  simply  because  I'm  hap- 
pier so." 

"  You'd  much  better  not,"  he  repeated. 

"Is  that  a  bargain?" 

"  Yes.  if  you  like,"  ho  answered,  looking  at  her  with  puzzled  eyea. 

It  was  the  first  long  conversation  that  they  had  had.  After  it, 
he  was  no  nicer  than  before.  He  never  kissed  her,  he  never  touched 
her,  he  seldom  talked  to  her;  when  she  talked,  he  seemed  to  be 
little  interested.  For  hours  he  lay  there,  looking  in  front  of  him, 
aaying  nothing.  When  the  little  doctor  came  they  wrangled  and 
fought  together  but  seemed  to  like  one  another. 

Through  it  all  Maggie  could  see  that  he  was  riddled  with  deep 
shame  and  self-contempt  and  haunted,  always,  by  the  thought  of 
his  father.  She  longed  to  speak  to  him  about  his  father's  death, 
but  as  yet  she  did  not  dare.  If  once  she  could  persuade  him  that 
that  had  not  been  his  fault,  she  cniJd,  she  thought,  really  help  him. 
That  was  the  secret  canker  at  his  heart  and  she  could  not  touch 
it. 

Strangely,  as  the  days  passed,  the  years  that  had  been  added 
to  him  since  their  last  meeting  seemed  to  fall  away.  He  became 
to  her  more  and  more  the  boy  that  he  had  been  when  she  had  known 
him  before.  In  a  thousand  ways  he  showed  it,  hia  extraordinary 
youth  and  inexperience  in  spite  of  all  that  he  had  been  and  done. 
She  felt  older  now  than  he  and  she  lored  him  the  more  for  that. 


448 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Uoat  of  all  iba  longed  to  get  him  twtjr  from  tbU  pUo*  whtn  ht 
wu.    Then  on*  day  little  Abrama  aaid  to  bar: 

"  He'll  Dever  get  well  hen." 

"  Tbat'i  what  I  think,"  ibe  aaid. 

"Can't  you  carry  him  off  lODiewheiet  The  country'a  the  place 
for  him — tomewhcre  in  the  Sooth." 

Her  heart  leapt. 

"Ob.  Glebeahire!"  ahc  cried. 

"  Well,  that'a  not  a  bad  place,"  be  aaid.  "  That  would  pick  him 
up." 

At  once  the  thought,  night  and  day,  of  St.  Dreot'a.  A  rery 
hunger  poaiMwd  her  to  get  back  there.  And  why  not  I  For  one 
thing,  it  would  be  ao  much  cheaper.  Her  money  would  not  laat 
for  ever,  and  Mra.  Brandon  robbed  her  whenever  pouible.  She 
determined  that  nhe  would  manage  it.  At  laat,  greatly  fearing 
it,  the  mentioned  it  to  him,  and  to  her  aurpriM  he  did  not  tcom  it. 

"  I  don't  care,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  that  curious  puuled 
expreaaion  that  the  often  saw  now  in  bit  eyes.  "  I'm  tick  of  this 
room.  That's  a  bargain.  Haggle,  you  can  put  me  where  you  like 
until  I'm  well.    Then  I'm  off." 

She  had  a  ttrange  superstition  that  Borhedden  was  fated  to  see 
her  triumph.  She  bad  wandered  round  the  world  and  now  was  re- 
turning again  to  her  own  home.  She  remembered  a  Mra.  Bolitbo 
who  had  had  the  farm  in  her  day.  She  wrote  to  her,  and  two 
days  later  received  a  letter  saying  that  there  was  room  for  them  at 
Borhedden  if  they  wished. 

She  was  now  all  feverish  impatience.  Dr.  Abrams  aaid  that 
Martin  could  be  moved  if  they  were  very  careful.  All  plans  were 
made.  Urs.  Brandon  and  the  ugly  little  doctor  both  seemed  quite 
aorry  that  they  were  going,  and  Emily  even  sniffed  and  wiped  her 
eye  with  the  comer  of  her  apron.  "The  world  seemed  now  to  be 
turning  a  different  face  to  Uaggie.  Human  beings  liked  her  and 
were  no  longer  suspicious  to  her  as  they  had  been  before. 

She  felt  henelf  how  greatly  the  had  changed.  It  was  as  though, 
until  she  had  found  Martin  again,  everything  had  been  tied  up 
in  her,  constrained.    She  had  been  some  one  lost  and  desolate. 

Nevertheless,  how  difiScnIt  these  days  were!  Through  all  this 
time  she  spoke  to  him  no  affectionate  word  nor  touched  him  with 
an  affectionate  gesture.  She  was  simply  a  good-humonred  com- 
panion, laughing  at  him,  asauming,  through  it  all,  an  off-hand 
indifference  that  meant  for  her  so  difficult  a  pretence  that  she 
thought  he  must  discover  it.  He  did  not;  he  was  in  many  ways 
more  simple  than  she.     She  laid  to  sleep  his  suspicions.     She 


,.::  IK; 
Hi.       )i.. 

>l  '(«  '.rf 
.Otp,   tt'..;; 
.',-1  I'. 


HOBQOBT  *"4  419 

oonU  f«el  hli  nlief  tbit  she  wm  not  rominUo,  that  she  wantiil 
•        dC  whatever  from  him.     He  wu  ilI-th«refore  wh  ofteo 
••  tried  to  hurt  her  esiin  ind  again  with  cruel  worda 
I  to  too  whether  ahe  were  hurt.    She  never  abowed 
^  her  with  contempt,  often  not  aniwcring  her 
.    ing  at  her  little  itupiditiea,  complaining  of  her 
i.  •ometiwc*.  her  untidineaa— telling  her  again  and 
ack  to  her  paraon." 
■  '•'■■■  oaign.    She  fought  her  way.    But  it  hurt ;  ahe  could 

■lieved  that  anything  could  hurt  ao  mn  i .     Shj  waa 
0*.  lya  drawn  to  him,  longing  to  put  her  arm   i-iund  hitu. 

to  aare  to  kiaa  him,  riaking  any  repulse.  He  «>■.  n>e<l  ■ .,  y„„Mg. 
•0  helpleaa,  to  unhappy.  Every  part  of  him  call.' '  ;  .  :  it,  hi"  hi'  r 
hia  eyea,  hia  voice,  hia  body.  But  ahe  held  h.  r  ,  u  ij  ►!*  uj\  t 
gave  way,  ahe  waa  reaoluto  in  her  plan. 

On  their  lait  evening  in  Lynton  Street,  for  tin-  mii.itM.  ho 
waa  auddenly  kind  to  her,  almoat  the  old  Uartm  sponki-.R  »,ih  -ho 
old  voice.  She  held  ber  breath,  acareely  dariug  t..  lei  Lcrs.lf  know 
bow  happy  ahe  waa. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  God,  Maggie? "  he  aaked.  t-ming  nn 
the  aofa  and  looking  at  her. 
"  Think  about  God «"  ahe  aaid,  repeating  hia  worfa. 
"Yea.    ...    la  there  one?" 

"  I  don't  know.    I  haven't  any  intelligence  about  tboae  thinn." 
"la  there  immortality?" 
«I  don't  know." 

"I  hope  not.    Your  paraon  thinks  there  is,  doean't  bef" 
"Of  courae  he  doca." 

"Did  be  have  lota  of  aervices  and  did  you  have  to  go  to  them?" 
"  Yea." 

"  Poor  Maggie— always  having  to  go  to  them.  Well,  it's  queer. 
Funny  if  there  isn't  anything  after  all  when  there's  been  such  a 
fight  about  it  BO  long.  Did  they  make  you  very  religious  at 
Skeaton  or  wherever  the  place  waa?" 

"No,"  said  Maggie.  "They  thought  mo  a  terrible  heathen. 
Grace  was  terrified  of  me,  I  seemed  ao  wicked  to  her.    She  thought 

I  was  bewitching  Paul's  soul " 

"  Perhaps  you  were." 

"  No.    So  little  did  I  that  he  hasn't  even  come  up  to  London  to 
fetch  me." 
"  Which  did  you  like  best— Skoaton  or  the  Chapel  ? " 
"I  don't  know.    I  waa  wrong  in  both  of  them.    They  were  juat 
oppoaite." 


450 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Uaggie  waited  a  little.  Then  she  said :  "  Uartin  there  muit  be 
■omething.  1  can  feel  it  as  though  it  were  behind  a  wall  some- 
where— I  can  bear  it  and  I  can't  see  anything.  Aunt  Anne  and 
— and — your  father,  and  Paul,  and  Mr.  Magnus  were  all  trying. 
...    It  feeU  like  a  fight,  but  I  don't  know  who's  fighting  who." 

Her  allusion  to  bis  father  had  been  unfortunate. 

"  It's  all  damned  rot  if  you  ask  me,"  he  said,  turned  his  face 
to  the  wall  aid  wouldn't  say  another  word. 

Next  morning  they  started.  Mrs.  Brandon's  bill  was  as  large 
as  she  could  make  it  and  still  not  very  large.  Dr.  Abrams.  to 
Maggie's  immense  surprise,  would  not  take  a  penny. 

'*  I'm  not  wantin'  money  just  now,"  he  said.  "  I'm  robbing  a  rich 
old  man  who  lives  near  here.  I'm  a  sort  of  highway  man,  you 
know,  rob  the  rich  and  spend  it  how  I  like.  Now  don't  you  preai 
me  to  make  up  a  bill  or  I  shall  change  my  mind  and  give  you 
one  and  it  will  be  so  large  that  you  won't  be  able  to  go  down  to 
Glebeshire.  How  would  you  like  that?  Oh,  don't  think  I'm 
doing  it  from  fine  motives.  You're  both  a  couple  of  babies,  that's 
what  you  are,  and  it  would  be  a  shame  to  rob  you.  How  you're 
ever  going  to  get  through  the  world  /  don't  know.  The  Babes  in 
the  Wood  weren't  in  it.    He  thinks  he's  wicked,  doesn't  he ! " 

"  Yes,  he  does,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Wicked  I  Why,  he  doesn't  know  what  wickedness  is.  A  couple 
of  children.  Look  after  his  heart  or  he'll  be  popping  oF  or.o  fine 
morning." 

Maggie  turned  pale.  "Oh  no,"  she  said,  her  voice  trembling. 
"He's  going  to  get  well." 

Abrams  sniffed.  "If  he  doesn't  drink  and  leads  a  healthy  life 
he  may.  But  leopards  don't  change  their  spots.  He's  worrying 
over  something.    What  is  it  i " 

"  His  father's  death,"  said  Maggie.  "  He  loved  his  father  more 
than  any  one  and  he's  got  it  into  bis  head  that  he  gave  him  a 
shock  and  killed  him." 

"  Well,  you  get  it  out  of  his  head,"  said  Abrams.  "  He  won't  be 
better  until  you  do." 

Next  morning  they  were  at  Paddington,  Martin  very  feeble  but 
indifferent  to  everything.  They  had  a  third-class  compartment  to 
themselves  until  they  got  to  Exeter,  and  all  that  while  Martin 
never  spoke  a  word.  During  this  time  Maggie  did  a  lot  of  quiet 
thinking.  She  was  worried,  of  course,  about  many  things  but 
especially  firiances.  She  knew  very  little  about  money.  She  gath- 
ered from  Martin  that  he  hod  not  only  spent  all  that  his  aunt  had 
left  him,  but  had  gone  considerably  beyond  it,  that  he  was  badly 


HOBGOBLINS 


451 


in  debt  and  saw  no  way  of  paying.  This  did  not  seem  to  worry  him 
but  It  worried  Maggie.  Debts  seemed  to  her  awful  things,  and  she 
could  not  imagine  how  any  one  lired  under  the  burden  of  them. 
Supposing  Martin  were  ill  for  a  long  time,  how  would  they  two 
live!  Her  little  stock  of  money  would  not  last  very  long.  She 
must  get  work,  but  she  knew  more  about  the  world  after  her 
years  at  Skeaton.  She  knew  how  ignorant  she  was.  how  unedu- 
cated and  hove  unsopbiscated.  She  did  not  doubt  her  ability  to 
fight  her  way,  but  there  might  be  weary  months  first,  and  mean- 
while what  of  Martin) 

She  looked  at  him,  asleep  .  dw  in  a  comer  of  the  carriage,  his 
soft  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  his  head  sunk,  his  hands  heavy 
and  idle  on  his  lap.  A  fear  caught  at  her  heart  as  she  watched 
him;  he  looked,  indeed,  terribly  ill,  exhausted  with  struggle,  and 
now,  with  all  the  bitterness  and  despair  drowned  in  sleep,  very 
gentle  and  helpless.  She  bent  over  and  folded  the  rug  more  closely 
round  his  knees.  Hid  he  woken  then  and  seen  hor  gaze  I  Her 
hands  rested  for  an  instant  on  his,  then  she  withdrew  back  into 
her  own  comer. 

That  coming  back  into  Glebeshire  could  not  but  be  wonder- 
ful to  her.  She  had  been  away  for  so  long  and  it  was  her 
home. 

The  tranquillity  and  peace  of  the  spring  evening  clothed  her  like 
a  garment,  the  brown  valleys,  the  soft  green  of  the  fields,  the  mild 
blue  of  the  sky  touched  her  until  she  could  with  difficulty  keep 
back  her  tears. 

"Oh,  make  it  right!"  she  whispered;  "make  it  rightl  Give 
him  to  me  again— I  do  love  him  so  I  " 
It  was  dusk  when  they  arrived  at  Clinton  St.  Mary's. 
The  little  station  stood  open  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven  blowing 
in  from  the  wide  expanses  of  St.  Mary's  Moor.  Ifaggie  remem- 
bered, as  though  it  were  yesterday,  her  arrival  at  that  station  with 
Aune  Anne.    Te.;,  she  had  grown  since  then. 

A  trap  was  waiting  for  them.  Martin  was  still  very  silent,  but 
he  liked  the  air  with  the  tang  of  the  sea  in  it,  and  he  asked  some- 
times about  the  names  of  places.  As  they  drew  nearer  and  nearer 
to  all  the  old-remembered  scenes,  Maggie's  heart  beat  faster  and 
fastei^this  lane,  that  field,  that  cottage.  And  then,  at  last,  there 
was  the  Vicarage  perched  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  with  its  chimneys 
like  cals*  ears! 

She  thought  of  Uncle  Mathew.  The  sight  cf  the  tranquil  eve- 
ning, the  happiness  and  comfort  of  the  fields  enabled  her  to  think 
of  him,  for  the  first  time,  quietly.    She  could  face  deliberately  his 


452 


THE  CAPTIVES 


death.    It  was  as  though  he  had  been  waiting  for  her  here  and 
had  come  forward  to  reaseure  her. 

They  drove  through  the  quiet  little  village,  out  on  to  the  high 
road,  then  down  a  side  lane,  the  hedges  brushing  against  the  sides 
of  the  jingle,  then  through  the  gates,  into  the  yard,  with  Borhedden 
Farm,  bright  with  its  lighted  windows,  waiting  for  them. 

Mrs.  Bolitbo  was  standing  in  the  porch  and  greeted  them  warmly 

"  You'll  be  just  starved,"  she  said.  "  It's  wisht  work  driving  in 
an  open  jingle  all  the  way  from  Clinton.  Supper's  just  about 
ready." 

They  were  shown  up  to  the  big  roomy  bedroom,  smelling  of 
candles  and  clover  and  lavender.  Martin  stood  there  looking  about, 
then 

"Oh,  Martin,  isn't  it  nice  I"  Maggie  cried.  "I  do  hope  you'll 
be  happy  here !  " 

The  emotion  of  returning  home,  of  seeing  the  old  places,  sniffing 
the  old  scents,  reviving  the  old  memories  was  too  much  for  her. 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 
For  a  moment,  for  a  wonderful  moment  it  seemed  that  he  was 
going  to  respond.  She  felt  him  move  towards  her.  His  hands 
tightened  about  hers.  Then,  but  very  gently,  he  drew  away  from 
hep  and  walkt-d  to  the  window. 


CHAPTER  m 


THE  TBIUllPH  or  UFE 

MAGGIE,  before  she  left  London,  had  written  both  to  Paul  and 
Mr.  Uagnua  giving  them  her  new  address.  She  had  intended 
to  see  Magnus,  but  Martin's  illness  had  absorbed  her  so  deeply  that 
she  could  not  proceed  outside  it.  She  told  him  quite  frankly  that 
she  was  going  down  to  Glebeshire  with  Martin  and  that  she  would 
remain  with  him  there  until  he  was  well.  She  did  not  try  to  de- 
fend herself;  she  did  not  argue  the  case  at  all;  she  simply  stated 
the  facts. 

Mr.  Magnus  wrote  to  her  at  once.  He  was  deeply  concerned,  he 
did  not  chide  her  for  what  she  had  done,  but  he  begged  her  to 
realise  her  position.  She  felt  through  every  line  of  his  letter  that 
he  disapproved  of  and  distrusted  Martin.  His  love  for  Maggie 
(and  she  felt  that  he  had  indeed  love  for  her)  made  him  look  on 
Martin  as  the  instigator  in  this  affair.  He  saw  Maggie,  igno- 
rant of  tl.u  world,  led  away  by  a  seducer  from  her  married  life, 
persuaded  to  embark  upon  what  his  own  experience  had  taught  him 
to  be  a  dangerous,  lonely,  and  often  disastrous  voyage.  He  had 
never  heard  -  any  good  of  Martin;  he  had  been  always  in  his 
view,  idle,  disholute,  and  selfish.  What  could  he  think  but  that 
Martin  had,  most  wickedly,  persuaded  her  to  abandon  her 
safety  1 

She  answered  his  letter,  telling  him  in  the  greatest  detail  the 
truth.  She  toH  him  that  Martin  had  done  all  he  could  to  refuse, 
that,  had  he  not  been  so  ill,  he  would  have  left  her,  that  he  had 
threatened  her,  again  and  again,  with  what  he  would  do  if  she  did 
not  leave  him. 

She  showed  him  that  it  had  been  her  own  determination  and 
absolute  resolve  that  had  created  the  situation— and  she  told  him 
that  she  was  happy  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

But  his  letter  did  force  her  to  realise  the  difficulties  of  her 
position.  In  writing  to  Mrs.  Bolitho  she  had  spoken  of  herself  as 
Martin's  wife,  and  now  when  she  was  called  "  Mrs.  Warlock  "  she 
tacitly  accepted  that,  hating  the  deceit,  but  wishing  for  anything 
that  might  keep  the  situation  tranquil  and  undisturbed. 
She  asked  Mrs.  Bolitho  to  let  her  have  a  small  room  near  the 
453 


454 


THE  CAPTIVES 


>.S  |i 


big  one,  telling  her  that  Martin  wai  so  ill  that  he  must  be  undis- 
turbed ut  night.  Then  Mr.  Magnus's  letter  arrived  addressed  to 
"Miss  Cardinal,"  and  she  thought  that  Mrs.  Bolitho  looked  at  her 
oddly  when  she  gave  it  to  her.  Martin's  illness,  too,  seemed  to 
disturb  the  household.  He  cried  out  in  his  dreams,  his  shouts 
waking  the  whole  establishment.  Bolitho,  once,  thinking  that 
murder  was  being  committed,  went  to  his  room,  found  him  sitting 
up  in  bed,  sweating  with  terror.  He  caught  hold  of  Bolitho,  flung 
his  arms  around  him,  would  not  let  him  go,  urging  him  "  not  to 
help  them,  to  protect  him.  They  would  catch  him  .  .  .  they 
would  catch  him.    They  would  catch  hin." 

The  stout  and  phlegmatic  farmer  was  himself  frightened,  sitting 
there  on  the  bed,  in  his  night-shirt,  and  "seeing  ghosts"  in  the 
flickering  light  of  the  candle.  Martin's  conduct  during  the  day 
was  not  reassuring.  He  had  lost  all  his  ferocity  and  bitterness; 
he  was  very  quiet,  speaking  to  no  one,  lying  on  a  sofa  that  over- 
looked the  moor,  watching. 

Mrs.  Bolitho's  really  soft  heart  was  touched  by  his  pallor  and 
weakness,  but  she  could  not  deny  that  "  there  was  something  queer 
here."  Maggie  almost  wished  that  his  old  mood  of  truculence 
would  return.  She  was  terrified,  too,  of  these  night  scenes,  because 
they  were  so  bad  for  his  heart.  The  local  doctor,  a  clever  young 
fellow  called  Stephens,  told  her  that  he  was  recovering  from  tho 
pneumonia,  but  that  his  heart  was  "  dickey." 

"  Mustn't  let  anything  excite  him,  Mrs.  Warlock,"  he 
said. 

There  came  then  gradually  over  the  old  house  and  the  village  the 
belief  that  Martin  was  "fey."  Mrs.  Bolitho  was  in  most  ways  a 
sensible,  level-headed,  practical  woman,  but  like  many  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Glebeshire,  she  was  deeply  superstitious.  It  was  not 
so  very  many  years  since  old  Jane  Curtis  had  been  ducked  in  the 
St.  Dreot's  pond  for  a  witch,  and  even  now,  did  a  cow  fall  sick  or 
the  lambs  die,  the  involuntary  thought  in  the  Glebeshire  "  pagan 
mind  "  was  to  look  for  the  "  evil  eye."  But  Mrs.  Bolitho  herself 
had  had  a  very  recent  example  in  her  own  family  of  "  possession." 
There  had  been  her  old  grandfather,  living  in  the  farm  with  them, 
as  hale  and  hearty  a  human  of  sixty-five  years  as  you'd  be  likelyto 
find  in  a  day's  march  through  Glebeshire.  "  He  lost  touch  with 
them,"  as  Mrs.  Bolitho  put  it.  In  a  night  his  colour  failed  him. 
his  cheerful  conversation  left  him,  he  could  "  do  nought  but  sit  and 
stare  out  o'  window."    A  month  later  he  died. 

Martin  had  not  been  lonp  at  Borhedden  before  she  came  to  her 
conclusions  about  him,  told  them  to  her  James,  and  found  that 


THE  TRIUMPH  OP  LIFE  455 

his  alow  but  sure  brains  had  come  to  the  same  decision.  In  the 
sense  of  the  tragedy  orerhanging  the  poor  young  man  she  forgot 
to  consider  the  possible  impropriety  of  his  relations  with  Maggie 
He  was  removed  at  once  from  human  laws  and  human  judgment. 
He  became  "  a  creature  of  God  "  and  was  surrounded  with  some- 
thing of  the  care  and  reverence  with  which  the  principal  "  softie  " 
in  the  village  was  regarded. 

It  was  not  that  Martin's  behaviour  was  in  any  way  odd.  After 
a  few  days  in  the  utter  peace  and  quiet  of  the  moor  and  farm  he 
screamed  no  more  at  night.  He  was  gentle  and  polite  to  every 
one,  ate  his  meals,  took  little  walks  out  on  to  the  moor  and  into 
the  village,  hut  liked  best  to  sit  in  front  of  the  parlour  window 
and  look  out  on  to  the  heath  and  grass,  watching  the  shadows  and 
the  sunlight  and  the  driving  sheets  of  rain. 

Mrs.  Bolitho  had  a  tender  heart  and  Maggie  shared  in  her  super- 
stitious pity.  Looking  back  to  her  youth  she  had  always  thought 
Maggie  a  "  wisht  little  thing."  "  Poor  worm,"  what  chance  had  she 
ever  had  with  that  great  scandalous  chap  of  a  father?  She  saw 
her  still  in  her  shabby  clothes  trying  to  keep  that  dilapidated 
house  together.  No,  what  chance  had  she  ever  had?  She  was 
still  a  "  wisht  little  thing." 

Nor  did  it  need  very  shrewd  eyes  to  see  how  desperately  devoted 
Maggie  was  to  Martin.  The  sight  of  that  touched  the  hearts  of 
eveiy  human  being  in  the  farm.  Not  that  Maggie  was  foolish; 
she  did  not  hang  about  Martin  all  the  tim...  she  never,  so  far  as 
Mrs.  Bohtho  could  see,  kissed  him  or  fondled  him,  or  was  with  him 
when  he  did  not  want  her.  She  was  not  sentimental  to  him  not 
sighing  nor  groaning,  nor  pestering  him  to  answer  romantic  ques- 
tions. On  the  contrary,  she  was  always  cheerful,  practical,  and  full 
of  common  sense,  although  she  was  sometimes  forgetful  and  was 
not  so  neat  and  tidy  as  Mrs.  Bolitho  would  have  wished.  She  al- 
ways spoke  as  though  Martin's  recovery  were  quite  certain  and 
Dr.  Stephens  told  Mrs.  Bolitho  that  he  did  not  dare  to  speak 
the  truth  to  her.  "The  chances  against  his  recovery,"  Stephens 
said,  "are  about  one  in  a  hundred.  He's  been  racketing  about 
too  long.  Too  much  drink.  But  he's  got  something  on  his  mind, 
mats  really  what's  the  matter  with  him." 

Mrs.  Bolitho  was  as  naturally  inquisitive  as  are  most  of  her 
sex,  and  this  knowledge  that  Martin  was  a  doomed  creature  with 
a  guilty  conscience  vastly  excited  her  curiosity.  What  Ij.id  the 
man  done?  What  had  been  his  relations  with  ilaggie?  Above  all 
did  he  really  care  for  Maggie,  or  no?  That  was  finally  the  ques- 
tion that  was  most  eagerly  discussed  in  the  depths  of  the  Bolitho 


456 


THE  CAPTIVES 


bedchamber.  James  Bolitho  maintained  that  he  didn't  care  "  that " 
for  her;  you  could  see  plain  enough,  he  asserted,  when  a  man  cared 
for  a  maid— there  were  signs,  sure  and  certain,  just  as  there  were 
with  cows  and  horses. 

"  You  may  know  about  cows  and  horses,"  said  Mrs.  Bolitho ; 
"  you're  wrong  about  humans."  The  way  that  she  put  it  was  that 
Uartin  cared  for  Maggie  but  "  couldn't  get  it  out."  "  He  doesn't 
want  her  to  know  it,"  she  said. 

"  Why  shouldn't  he? "  asked  James. 

"Now  you're  asking,"  said  Mrs.  Bolitho. 

"Nice  kind  of  courtin'  that  be,"  said  James;  "good  thing  you 
was  a  bit  different,  missus.  Lovin'  a  lass  and  not  speaking — 
shouldn't  like ! " 

Mrs.  Bolitho's  heart  grew  very  tender  towards  Maggie.  Mar- 
ried or  not,  the  child  was  in  a  "  fiery  passion  of  love."  Nor  was 
it  a  selfish  passion,  neither-r-wanted  very  little  for  herself,  but  only 
for  him  to  get  well.  There  was  true  romance  here.  Maggie,  how- 
ever, gave  away  no  secrets.  She  had  many  talks  with  Mr.  Bolitho: 
about  the  village,  about  the  new  parson,  about  Mrs.  Bolitho's  son, 
Jacob,  now  in  London  engineering,  and  the  apple  of  her  eye, — 
about  many  things  but  never  about  herself,  the  past  history  nor  her 
feeling  for  Martin. 

The  girl  never  "  let  on  "  that  she  was  suffering,  and  yet  "  suf- 
fering she  must  be."  You  could  sec  that  she  was  just  holding 
herself  "tight"  like  a  wire.  The  stronge  intensity  of  her  de- 
termination was  beautiful  but  also  dangerous.    "  If  anything  was 

to  happen "  said  Mrs.  Bolitho.     She  saw  Martin,  too,  many 

times,  looking  at  Maggie  in  the  strangest  way,  as  though  he  were 
travelling  towards  some  decision.  He  certainly  was  a  good  young 
man  in  his  behaviour,  doing  now  exactly  what  ho  was  told,  never 
angry,  never  complaining,  and  that,  Mrs.  Bolitho  thought,  was 
strange,  because  you  could  see  in  his  eye  that  he  had  a  will  and  a 
temper  of  his  own,  did  he  like  to  exercise  them.  After  all,  he  him- 
self was  the  merest  boy,  scarcely  older  than  Jacob.  She  could,  her- 
self, see  that  he  must  have  been  a  fine  enough  lad  when  he  had  his 
health — the  breadth  of  his  shoulders,  the  thick  sturdiness  of  his 
shape,  the  strength  of  his  thighs  and  arms.  Her  husband  had 
seen  the  boy  stripped,  and  had  told  her  that  he  must  have  been  a 
"  lovely  man."  Drink  and  evil  women — ay,  they'd  brought  him 
down  as  they'd  brought  many  another — and  she  thought  of  her 
Jacob  in  London  with  a  catch  nt  her  heart.  She  stopped  in  her 
cooking  and  prayed  there  and  then,  upon  her  kitchen  floor,  that  he 
might  be  kept  safe  from  all  harm. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIPB 


457 


.n? ..!!'  ""F^  °'"  '"  *■"  '"'■«=•  "'  «»"«.  nsmembered  Maggie, 
"r  JS^^L  '^H°''\"t-""i  '!:''  ""  """^  '=''"''«^"  "Cuf  "; 
.7.  .h?^,n7  ,r  fuiS\  '•'*''  '"PP""^-  They  had  liked  her 
fHpnHl  1^  .^''^'J'''*?  *""■  ■""•  She  w.,  more  cheerful  and 
friendly,  they  thought,  then  the  used  to  be. 

fl,„  ru'*'^'*'?/'i!  ""'  """"^  »'""«'•  '■'h  ^''^P  '■"«'«'.  for  "hat 
huSin  l^-  ''"^«' 1^.8  mark  upon  him,  and  nothing  that  any 
hZ  .  -^  ?'  ™"'''  ^°  T^"''*  '"«  •"'■"■  I"  o'd  d«y»  they  would 
fZ  ,K  ."T  J?.t"  ''i!^  "'"'  *'»"^''  ^'""  »»  '"""'h  Bome  Tirtu« 

hid  .^I™°,     ^  ^""f  "^'l"'"  "^°  *'""•  l""  'hey  felt  when  they 

bSt  hf;  f  ""  P«7"°  '«■»«  to  call  upon  Martin  and  Maggie, 
but  he  got  very  little  from  his  visit. 

"  Poor  fellow  "he  said  to  his  wife  on  his  return.  «  His  days 
are  numbered,  I  fear."  ' 

To  every  one  it  was  as  though  Martin  and  Maggie  were  enclosed 
™«^r]7t°l  **  f  their  own.  No  one  could  come  near  them,  no 
rrrpaltl'rtru''^'  ''"'  '^"^  """^  "''"'""«•  "'  '"^  ">^  °' 

"Only,"  as  Mrs.  Bolitho  said  to  her  husband,  "one  thing's 
certain,    she   do    love   'im    with    all    her    heart    and   soul-poor 

nJI'*?.,^"^'''  ^"^  ^"^^  ^'^  ^'^  «'  ♦•■«  f"™  "hout  a  fort- 
night, there  came  to  St.  Dreot's  a  travelling  circus.    This  was  a 

^dtement  f  ,'i;'"'-!,"  """'  T?  """■  """^  P"""*"!  considerable 
«ml      ^K         *"  ""»««,  population.    There  were  also  gipsies  who 

afx^n,^  wftlTT'  ft  **'""«  i^  ^"''""™  "^  --y  "'■°  h-d  a  spare 
colour  that  the  circus  and  the  gipsies  brought  into  the  village  was 
exactly  suited  to  the  St.  Dreot  blood.    Many  centuries  ago  stralge 

™  .7'  f  ^""T^  'J"'"  ""''  '""'  ""^  »"<»  «««''»  of  the  southcfn 
field.' Zr^"  dark  strangers  had  penetrated  across  the  moors  and 
fields  and  had  mingled  with  the  natives  of  the  plain.  Scarcelv  an 
mhabitant  of  St.  Dreot  but  had  some  dark  colour  in  hi.To^,  ^ 
gift  from  those  Phoenie.an  adventurers;  scarcely  an  inhabitant 
but  was  conscious  from  time  to  time  of  other  strains,  more  tumul- 
tuous paaaions,  than  the  Saxon  race  could  show 

nJIH^fT'"*  f  J*"^  ","''".  ''"'  '°  ■'■  "'""'"  they  knew  it  or 
no^wmethmg  of  the  welcoming  of  their  own  people  back  to  them 
Win.  They  liked  to  we  the  elephant  and  the  camel  tread  solemnly 
rftl^^!^  t^  1  '^^'""f^*  street,  they  liked  to  bear  the  roar 
of  the  wild  beaata  at  night  when  they  were  safe  uid  warm  in  their 


468  THE  CAPTIVES 

own  comfortible  beds,  tbey  liked  to  have  solemn  coniuUations  with 
the  gip»y  girlt  a«  to  heir  myrterioui  deatiniea.  The  animaU,  in- 
deed, were  not  many  nor,  poor  things,  were  they,  after  many  yeaia 
chains  and  discipline,  very  fierce-nerertheless  they  roared  because 
they  knew  it  was  their  duty  so  to  do,  and  when  the  lion  s  turn  came 
a  notice  was  hung  up  ouUide  his  cage  saying:  "  This  is  the  Lion 
that  last  year,  at  Clinton,  bit  Mis«  Harper."  There  were  also  pei- 
forming  dogs,  a  bear,  and  two  seals. 

The  circus  was  quite  close  to  tho  f"rm. 

"I  do  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Bolitho  u  Jartin,  "that  the  roaring  oJ 
the  animala  won't  disturb  you." 

It  did  not  disturb  him.  Ht  ^-emed  to  like  it,  and  went  out 
and  stood  there  watching  all  the  labours  of  the  gipsies  and  the 
tent  men,  and  even  went  into  "The  Green  Boar"  and  drank 
a  glass  of  beer  with  Mr.  Marquis,  the  proprietor  of  the  cir- 

6n  the  third  day  after  their  arrival  there  was  a  proper  Glebe- 
shire  mist  It  was  a  day,  also,  of  freezing,  biting  cold,  such  a  day 
as  sometimes  comes  in  of  a  Glebeshire  May-cold  that  seems,  in 
its  damp  penetration,  more  piercing  than  any  frost. 

The  mist  came  rolling  up  over  the  moor  in  wreaths  and  spirals 
of  shadowy  grey,  sometimes  shot  with  a  queer  dull  light  as  though 
the  sun  was  fighting  behind  it  to  beat  a  way  through,  sometimes  so 
dense  and  thick  that  standing  at  the  door  of  the  farm  you  could 
not  see  your  hand  in  front  of  your  face.  It  was  cold  with  the 
chill  of  the  sea  foam,  mysterious  in  its  ever-changing  intricacies 
of  shape  and  form,  lifting  for  a  sudden  instant  and  showing  green 
grass  and  the  pale  spring  flowers  in  the  border  by  the  windows, 
then  charging  down  again  with  fold  on  fold  of  vapour  thicker  and 
thicker,  swaying  and  throbbing  with  a  purpose  and  meaning  ot  its 
own  Early  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Bolitho  took  a  peep  at  her 
lodgera.  She  did  not  intend  to  spy-«he  was  an  honest  woman— 
but  she  shared  most  vividly  the  curiosity  of  all  the  village  about 
"  these  two  queer  ignorant  children."  as  she  called  them.  Stand- 
ing in  the  bow-window  of  her  own  little  parlour  she  could  see 
the  bow-window  and  part  of  the  room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
house-door.  Maggie  and  Martin  stood  there  looking  out  into  the 
mist.  The  woman  could  see  Maggie's  face,  dim  though  the  light 
was.  and  a  certain  haunting  desire  in  it  tugged  at  Mrs.  Bolitho  s 
tender  teart.  "Poor  worm."  she  thought  to  herself,  "shes  long- 
ing for  ium  to  say  something  to  her  and  he  won't."  They  were 
talking  Then  there  was  a  paii=o  and  Martin  turned  away.  Mag- 
gie's eyes  passionately  besought  him.     What  did  she  want  him 


THE  TRIUMPH  OP  LIFE 


459 


to  do — to  say  i  Ura.  Bolitho  could  tee  that  the  girl'i  hand*  were 
clenched,  as  though  she  had  reached,  at  lait,  the  very  limita  of  her 
endurance.  He  did  not  aee.  Hia  back  was  half  turned  to  her.  He 
did  not  speak,  but  stood  there  drumming  with  hia  hands  on  the 
glass. 

"  Oh,  I  could  shake  him,"  thought  Mrs.  Bolitho's  imvatience. 
For  a  time  Maggie  waited,  never  stirring,  her  eyes  fixed,  her  body 
taut. 

Then  she  seemed  suddenly  to  break,  as^  though  the  moment  of 
endurance  was  past.  She  turned  sharply"  round,  looking  dirretly 
out  of  her  window  into  Mrs.  Bolitho'a  room — but  she  didn't  see 
Mrs.  Bolitho. 

That  good  woman  saw  her  smile,  a  strange  little  smilo  of 
defiance,  pathos,  loneliness,  cheeriness  defeated.  She  vanished 
from  her  window  although  lie  stood  there.  A  moment  later,  in 
a  coat  and  hat.  she  came  out  of  the  front  door,  stood  for  a  moment 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  mist  looking  about  her,  then  vanished  on 
to  the  moor. 

"  She  oughtn't  to  be  out  in  this,"  thought  the  farmer's  wife. 
"  It's  dangerous." 

Slio  waited  a  little,  then  came  and  knocked  on  the  door  of  the 
other  sitting-room.    She  met  Martin  in  the  doorway. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bolitho,"  ho  soid,  "  I  thought  I'd  go  to  the  circus  for 
half  an  hour." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  she  said. 

He  too  disappeared.  She  sat  in  her  kitchen  all  the  afternoon 
busily  mending  the  undergarments  of  her  beloved  James.  But  her 
thouglit  were  not  with  her  husband.  She  could  not  get  the  picture 
of  those  two  young  things  standing  at  the  window  facing  the  mist- 
drunk  moor  out  of  her  head.  The  sense  that  had  come  to  the  farm 
with  Martin's  entry  into  it  of  something  eerie  and  foreboding  in- 
creased now  with  every  tick  of  the  heavy  kitchen  clock.  She 
seemed  to  listen  now  for  sounds  and  portents.  The  death-tick  on 
the  wall — was  that  foolish?  Some  men  said  so,  but  she  knew  bet- 
ter. Had  she  not  heard  it  on  the  very  night  of  her  grandfather's 
death?  She  sat  there  and  recounted  to  herself  every  ghost-story 
that,  in  the  course  of  a  long  life,  had  come  her  wa.v.  The  headless 
horseman,  the  eooch  with  the  dead  travellers,  the  three  pirates  and 
their  swaying  gibbets,  the  ghost  of  St.  Dreot's  churchyard,  the 
Wailing  Woman  of  Clinton,  and  many,  many  others,  all  passed  be- 
fore her,  making  pale  her  check  and  sending  her  heart  in  violent 
beots  up  and  down  the  scale. 

The  kitchen  grew  darker  and  darker.    She  let  the  underdothea 


460 


THE  CAPTIVES 


lie  upon  her  Up.  Soon  ibe  miut  light  the  lamp,  but  meanwhile, 
before  the  oren  ihe  let  her  finciei  OTerwhelm  her,  luzuriatinf  in 
her  terror. 

Suddenly  the  kitchen-door  wee  flung  open.  She  etarted  up  with 
a  er;.  Martin  itood  then  and  in  a  voice,  lo  new  to  her  that  the 
•eemed  nerer  to  have  heard  it  before,  ha  (bouted,  "  When'a  Hag- 
gle t" 

She  itood  up  in  great  agitation.  He  came  towards  her  and  she 
aaw  that  hia  face  waa  Tiolant  with  agitation,  with  a  kind  of 
rage. 

"Whera'i  Uaggiel"  he  repeated. 

She  law  that  he  wat  ibaking  all  over  and  it  waa  as  though  be 
did  not  know  who  the  wai, 

"  Maggie  i "  ahe  repeated. 

"  My  wife  I  My  wife  I "  he  cried,  and  be  ihouted  it  again  aa 
though  he  Tere  proclaiming  lome  fact  to  the  whole  world. 

"She  wcLt  out,"  said  Mrs.  Bolitho,  "about  three  houn  back 
I  should  think." 

"  Went  outi "  be  stormed  at  her.    "  And  in  this  I " 

Then,  before  she  could  say  another  word,  he  waa  gone.  It  was 
in  Tciy  truth  like  an  apparition. 

She  sat  there  for  some  time  staring  in  front  of  her,  still  shaken 
by  the  violence  of  his  interruption.  She  went  then  to  the  kitchen- 
door  and  listened — not  a  sound  in  the  house.  She  went  farther, 
out  through  the  passage  to  the  ball-door.  She  opened  it  and  looked 
out.  A  sea  of  driving  mist,  billowing  and  driving  as  though  by 
some  internal  breeze,  met  her. 

"  Poor  things."  she  said  to  herself.  "  They  shouldn't  be  out  in 
this."  She  shut  the  door  and  went  back  into  the  house.  She 
called,  "Jim  I  Jim  I  Where  are  yout"  At  last  he  came,  stump- 
ing up  from  some  mysterious  labour  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
house. 

"What  is'tl"  he  said,  startled  by  her  white  face  and  troubled 
eyes. 

"  The  two  of  them,"  she  said,  "  have  gone  out  on  to  the  moor 
in  this  mist.    It  isn't  safe." 

"Whatever  fori"  he  asked. 

"How  should  I  knowt  She  wcut  out  flrat  and  now  he's  after 
her.    "Tisn't  safe,  Jim.    You'd  best  follow  them." 

He  didn't  argue  with  her,  being  an  obedient  husband  disciplined 
by  many  yean  of  matrimony. 

"  Well.  I'll  go,"  he  said  slowly.   "  Best  take  William,  though." 

He  went  off  in  search  of  his  man. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE  M] 

tn^li^^?"'^"-"^  "?'  '""''''*•  ^•''  "  ho"'  I«ter  Mamie  re- 
S'St:.\^'  ..tting-room  looking  .bout  her.  ,ook"ff  1^, 
on  SU  '••'•.'*«"'••'""'""«  hCT  own  thought,,  .lowly  put  th^a 
on.  She  w..  then  .bout  to  leave  the  room  when  the  door  W 
op«.  .nd  M.rtin  tumbled  in.    He  .tood  nt  the  d™rway  ,Urin«"t 

1  tbought    ...    yon  were  out "  »ui.    .    .    . 

She  lookeii  .t  him  .  rowly. 

bJn^her^'"  '  ""'"  """  ""*"'"'  "^tonioon  Uke  thi..    If  Id 

"Well,  you  weren't.     You  .houldn't  haro  gone  o  it  cith.,  („. 

the  matter  of  that.    And  I  w.a  .t  the  ciriu.-.  U  .1.1  pt"  oM 

I  ra  going  out  .gain,"  ibe  (aid. 
"Out  again »» 

thrt/-"*    *   ■   ■    '^''•"'' •*"'"«' CUnton  at  «!Ten.    I'm  catching 

«Y.!"'t!."..^\""x"'  "  ''"•  '""Pletely  bewildered. 
■u.JV'       .V   "'"'  '  '""*  ""'  '»  «*«  "J-  head  clear  about. 

"r„'y\ne"  :;^Ctr..  ^'" ""  ♦'«•«  --  -  '-'•  •^- 

"  I  haven't  beaten  you.  Muggie." 

wl'iw;,^°"  '"'"'■    I  '"^  '""  "'•"'<*"'*  •*  «W«  «o  ""d  me  away. 

.^en«  V  T-T'*  '"  """^  '°  "">  •'"'y  "V  yo"  could-byjou; 
iilence.  You  haven't  opened  your  mouth  for  a  fortnight  You'« 
better  now.  too.  and  Mr,.  Bolitho  will  look  after  you  I  wl"  d" 
tormmed  to  hang  on  to  you.  but  I  find  I  can't  Tm  going  back 
to  London  to  get  aome  work."  * 

from'l!!.',"^.  ^r'^^  '""  "*'.  ''°^'"-    'T''™-  "'"'  •"■•  head  turned 

"  No.  Maggie,  don't  go." 

wf>«  WK*^/"?  "  "i'",:  "  '^''*"''  ■""  "^e^  «>  •»  Po'ite.  Martin. 
Wore  both  of  u.  ^yond  that  by  thi,  time.    I'll  come  back  if  y^u 

STl?"  °"-,J°J'  ''"r  ""*  ^  «'"«y«  '"'.  l>"t  at  last  after 
«U  these  years.  I've  found  a  wrap  of  ,elf.re,poct.    Here  am  I  1? 

^.n  and  nobody  wantmg  me  I  don't  ,uppo«,"  ,he  -aid  lau/h" 
ing,  that  there  can  be  anybody  lee,  wanted  in  the  whole  «-o,M 
So  I'm  ,n.t  going  to  look  lifter  myaelf  now.    If,  quite  time  I  d/i^ 


MiaiOCOPr   lESOlUTION   TEST  CMAUT 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  21 


1.0    irKS  1^ 


2.2 


III     I  I  ^    ■^     11^ 

VM  illlii  III  ,.6 


^  APPLIED  IVHGE     Inc 

^=1  1653   East   Mo,r    Street 

^^S  F'ochester,   Utw   York         1*609        U^ 

^^S  (756)   *82  -  0300  -  Phone 

^S  (716)   288  -  5999  -  Fo. 


462 


THE  CAPTIVES 


"  But  I  want  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  still  very  low. 
She  looked  up,  her  eyes  lit  as  though  with  some  sudden  recogni- 
tion 

"  If  you  really  mean  that,"  she  said,  "  say  it  again.  If  you 
don't  mean  it,  don't  humbug  me.  I  won't  be  humbugged  any 
more." 

"  I  haven't  humbugged  you — ever,"  he  answered.  "  1  ou  re  the 
only  person  I've  always  been  absolutely  straight  with.  I've  always, 
from  the  very  beginning,  told  you  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
It's  more  true  than  ever  now.  I've  been  trying  ever  since  you 
came  back  to  me  in  London  to  get  you  to  leave  rae.  But  it's  too 
late.  I  can't  fight  it  any  more.  ...  I  loved  you  all  the  time  I 
was  abroad.  I  oughtn't  to  have  written  to  you,  but  I  did.  I  came 
back  to  London  with  the  one  hope  of  seeing  you,  but  determined 
not  to. 

"  I  loved  you  more  than  ever  when  you  came  into  my  lodging 
there,  but  I  was  sick  and  hadn't  any  money,  besides  all  my  other 
failings.  .  .  .  It's  the  only  decent  thing  I've  ever  really  tried 
to  do,  to  keep  you  away  from  me,  and  now  I've  failed  in  that. 
When  I  came  in  and  found  you  were  gone  this  afternoon  I  thought 
I'd  go  crazy. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  struggle  any  more.    If  you  go  away  I'll  follow 
you  wherever  you  go.    1  may  as  well  try  to  give  up  keeping  you 
out  of  it.    It's  like  keeping  myself  out  of  it." 
Slowly  she  todk  her  hat  and  coat  off  again. 
"  Well,  then,"  she  said,  "  I'd  better  stay,  I  suppose." 
He  suddenly  sat  down,  his  face  white.    She  came  across  to  him. 
She  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead. 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed,  Martin,  dear.  I'll  bring  your  tea 
in." 

He  caught  her  hand.  She  knelt  down,  put  her  arms  round  him, 
and  so  they  stayed,  cheek  to  cheek,  for  a  long  time. 

When  he  had  gone  to  his  room  she  sat  in  the  arm-chair  by  the 
fire,  her  hands  idly  folded  on  her  lap.  She  let  happiness  pour  in 
upon  her  as  water  floods  in  upon  a  dried  and  sultry  river-bed.  She 
was  passive,  her  tranquillity  was  rich  and  full,  too  full  for  any 
outward  expression. 

She  was  so  happy  that  her  heart  was  weighted  down  and  seemed 
scarcely  to  beat.  It  was  not,  perhaps,  the  exultant  happiness  that 
she  had  expected  this  moment  to  bring  her. 

When,  in  after  days,  she  looked  back  to  that  quiet  half-hour  by 
the  fire  she  saw  thtt  it  was  then  that  she  had  passed  from  girlhood 
into  womanhood.     The  first  chapter  of  her  life  was,  at  that  mo- 


THE  TRIUMPH  OP  LIFE 


463 


ment  8  laying  of  her  hand  on  Martin's  forehead,  closed.  The  love 
for  him  that  filled  her  so  utterly  was  in  great  part  maternal.  It  was 
to  be  her  destiny  to  know  the  deep  tranquil  emotion.s  of  life 
rather  than  the  pas.sionate  and  transient.  She  was  perhaps  the 
more  blessed  in  that. 

Even  now,  at  the  very  instant  of  her  triumph,  she  deceived  her- 
self in  nothing.  There  were  many  difficulties  ahead  for  her.  She 
had  still  to  deal  wfth  Paul:  Martin  was  not  a  perfect  character, 
nor  would  he  suddenly  become  one.  Above  all  that  ^trange  sense 
of  being  a  captive  in  a  world  that  did  not  understand  her,  some 
one  curious  and  odd  and  alien— that  would  not  desert  her.  That 
also  was  true  of  Martin.  It  was  true— strangely  true— of  so  many 
of  the  people  she  had  known— of  the  aunts,  Uncle  Mathew  Mr 
Magnus,  of  Paul  and  of  Grace,  of  Mr.  Toms,  and  even  perhaps  of 
Thurston  and  Amy  Warloek— all  captives  in  a  strange  country, 
trying  to  find  the  escape,  each  in  his  or  her  own  fashion,  back 
to  the  land  of  their  birth. 

But  the  land  was  there.  Just  as  the  lion,  whose  roar  very  faintly 
she  could  hear  through  the  thick  walls,  remembered  in  his  cage 
the  jungles  and  mountains  of  his  happiness,  so  was  she  aware 
of  hers.  The  land  was  there,  the  fight  to  get  back  to  it  was 
real. 

She  smiled  to  herself,  looking  back  on  the  years.  Many  people 
would  have  said  that  she  had  had  no  very  happy  time  since  that 
sudden  moment  of  her  father's  death,  but  it  did  not  seem  to 
her,  in  retrospect,  unhappy.  There  had  been  unhappy  times,  tragic 
times,  but  life  was  always  bringing  forward  some  magnificent  mo- 
ment, some  sudden  flash  of  splendour  that  made  up  for  all  the  rest. 
How  could  you  be  bitter  about  people  when  you  were  all  in  the 
same  box.  all  as  ignorant,  as  blind,  as  eager  to  do  well,  as  fallible,  as 
brave,  as  mistaken  ? 

The  thoughts  slipped  dimly  through  her  mind.  She  was  too 
happy  to  trace  them  truly.  She  had  never  been  one  for  conscious 
philosophy. 

Nevertheless  she  did  not  doubt  but  that  life  was  worth  while, 
that  th.re  was  something  immortal  in  her,  and  that  the  battle  was 
good  to  fight— but  what  it  really  came  to  was  that  she  loved 
Martin,  and  that  at  last  some  one  needed  her,  that  she  need 
never  be  lonely  any  more. 

Mrs.  Bolitho  stepped  in  with  the  tea. 

"  I'll  take  it  in  to  him,"  Maggie  said,  standing  up  and  stretching 
out  her  arms  for  the  tray. 
The  woman  looked  ui  her  and  gave  a  little  "Ah!"  of  satisfac- 


464 


THE  CAPTIVES 


tion,  as  though,  at  length,  she  saw  in  Maggie's  «yaa  that  for  which 

ahe  had  been  searching. 
"  Wh;,  I  do  believe,"  she  said,  "  that  walk's  done  'eo  good." 
"  I  do  believe,"  Maggie  said,  laughing,  "  it  has." 
Carrying  the  tray  carefully  die  went  through  Into  Martin's  room. 


PoLPEBBO,  Jan.,  1910. 
POLPKBBO,  Mail,  19S0. 


IBB  BUD 


t  for  which 
eo  good." 
rtin's  room. 


